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FOLLY 


Folly 


By 
EDITH    RICKERT 

Author  of  "The  Reaper  " 

With  Frontispiece  by 
SIGISMOND  DE  IVANOWSKI 


THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO 


33-37  East  Seventeenth  Street 
New   Tork 


Copyright,  1906,  by  The  Baker   tf  Taylor  Co. 

Published,   March,    1906 


Publishers'   Printing  Company,   New  York 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I.— THE  HOUSE  OF  TEMPTATION. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

/.  The  New  Folly i 

//.  The  Little  Lover 10 

///.  Why  He  Came 23 

IV.  The  Trap 31 

V.  After  the  Guillotine 40 

VI.  The  Fellow-Man 55 

VII.  Suspense 62 

VIII.  The  Devil  Plays  Dummy     ....    75 

IX.  On  the  Edge 89 

X.  A  Play  0}  Souls 96 

XI.  Life  for  Life 108 

XII.  The  Keeping  of  the  Bargain     .    .    .116 

XIII.  The  Break 124 

XIV.  Casting  off  the  Ropes 132 


Folly 
BOOK  II.— THE  CITY  OF  THORNS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.  Dreams 141 

XVI.  Reality 155 

XVII.  The  Last  Toss-up 164 

XVIII.  The  Home-Coming 171 

XIX.  The  Barrier 183 

XX.  The  Other  Woman 194 

XXI.  The  Case  of  the  Neighbour  .    .    .    .202 
XXII.  At  the  Shrine 209 

XXIII.  The  Ferry 224 

XXIV.  The  Only  Way 231 

XXV.  Husband  and  Wife 238 

XXVI.  The  Sisterhood 245 

XXVII.  Help 254 

BOOK  III.— THE  FOOTPATH-WAY. 

XXVIII.  Wisdom  at  Chelsea 265 

XXIX.  A  Delicate  Mission 274 

XXX.  Diplomacy 281 

XXXI.  By  the  Sea 292 

XXXII.  The  Letter 299 

vi 


Folly 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXIII.  "O  Folly,  Folly  I" 308 

XXXIV.  Bewilderment 317 

XXXV.  Coram       326 

XXXVI.  Low  Eaves 334 

XXXVII.  Mother  and  Son 341 

XXXVIII.  The  Conspiracy 350 

XXXIX.  The  Ninth  Guest 357 

XL.  "Why  Need  We?" 362 


Vll 


BOOK  I. 
THE  HOUSE   OF  TEMPTATION. 


"  Strong-builded  the  house  with  walls  of  love, 

But  the  perilous  siege  is  strong. 
Ho!  a  cry  below,  a  cry  above: 

"The  gates  will  hold— how  long?" 

J.  HALDANE  GORE,  The  Watch  Tower. 


Book  I. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  TEMPTATION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  NEW   FOLLY. 

NEAR  four  of  the  clock  on  a  gay  April  afternoon,  at 
Sunlands,  her  Surrey  home,  Folly  came  downstairs  for 
the  first  time  after  her  illness.  Bronzino  would  have 
been  the  man  to  paint  her,  some  three  centuries  earlier; 
he  would  have  done  justice  to  the  proud  uplift  of  the 
head,  the  noble  curve  of  the  broad  shoulders,  the  ample 
sweep  of  limb,  as  she  descended  slowly,  but  with  a  firm 
step  and  unwavering.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  would 
have  chosen  to  show  her  poised  under  the  rose- window 
of  ancient  glass,  with  its  ambers  illuminating  the  amber 
of  her  hair,  its  royal  blues  empurpling  her  golden-hued 
dress,  and  its  crimsons  staining  the  steps  below ;  or 
whether  he  would  have  portrayed  her  leaning  over  the 
balustrade  of  the  great  staircase  where  it  swings  out 
into  the  hall,  her  hands  upon  the  carven  imps  and 

dragons  of  the  handrail,  her  eyes,  with  the  look  of  see- 

i 


Folly 

ing  a  thing  new  and  strange,  upon  the  dusky  Madonna 
over  the  fireplace  below. 

There  she  hung,  like  any  Juliet  from  her  balcony,  but 
did  not  perceive  her  husband  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
until  he  tossed  a  tiny  bunch  of  celandines  against  her 
cheek. 

She  caught  the  posy  and  glanced  down  upon  him 
calmly  and  critically.  She  might  well  have  been  think- 
ing that,  burly  and  ruddy  as  he  was,  he  made  no  bad 
figure  of  a  country  squire;  but  he  grew  uncomfortably 
aware  that  he  was  hot  and  mud-splashed  and  entirely 
out  of  harmony  with  her  daintiness. 

She  tossed  back  his  flowers  with  the  comment :  "  They 
don't  match  my  gown — see?" 

In  silence  he  returned  the  despised  blossoms  to  his 
buttonhole,  as  she  asked  indifferently:  "Roads  bad?" 

He  nodded:  " I'd  have  made  a  bee-line  cross-coun- 
try if  I'd  known  you  were  coming  down.  Hey,  there — 
want  an  arm?"  He  thought  for  a  moment  that  she 
was  dizzy. 

"Not  I.    I'm  doing  this  myself,  thank  you." 

"Come  along,  then;  there's  a  draught  here,"  he 
urged. 

"Presently.  .  .  .  Well?" 

Her  look  challenged  him  to  a  question,  but  he  could 
not  make  out  what  she  wanted. 

"  Andrew !  "—she  laughed.    "  St.  Andrew " 

"What's  up?"  He  obviously  did  not  fancy  the 
canonization. 

2 


Folly 

"  I've  such  a  shock  for  you.  I'm  not  the  same  woman 
I  was  last  month — or  even  last  week — or  yesterday. 
I'm  somebody  else!" 

He  grunted:  "I  could  have  told  you  that  years  ago. 
You're  somebody  else  every  other  day.  Come  down — 
away  from  that  window." 

She  shrugged.   "How  do  you  like  my  tea-gown?" 

"  Stunning,"  he  remarked,  without  enthusiasm. 

"So  it  is,"  she  accepted  the  praise  as  her  due.  "I 
meant  it  to  be.  I  planned  it  out  the  day  before  baby 
came;  and  I  decided  then  to  wear  it  now.  Jordan  did 
the  rest." 

"Are  you  coming  down?"  he  persisted. 

"Oh,  you  tiresome  grub  in  tweeds!  You  would  like 
it  as  well  if  it  were  a  red  and  black  checked  flannel!" 

"I  should  like  you  as  well,"  he  admitted. 

"You  see,"  she  expounded  her  canon  of  art,  "it's 
the  coppery  gold  of  unfolding  beech-buds,  and  you 
can't  deny  that  it  tones  with  my  hair;  while  the  green 
is  the  colour  of  the  young  leaves,  and  I  used  it  in  the 
frills  to  reflect  green  into  my  eyes.  If  I  didn't  dress 
properly,  goodman,  people  would  say  I  was  extraor- 
dinary— plain.  And  they  don't,  do  they?  But  we're 
getting  away  from  the  point." 

"By  no  means,"  said  he.  "I'm  sticking  to  it.  Come 
down  this  minute." 

"Sha'n't!    Not  till  I  please!" 

In  a  second  he  had  her  by  the  wrist  and  was  dragging 
her,  half  laughing,  half  resisting,  into  the  drawing-room. 

3 


Folly 

"I  pleased  then,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  flush.  "I 
like  you  best  when  you're  most  disagreeable,  Dandie." 

When  she  had  arranged  herself  in  an  arm-chair  be- 
fore the  fire,  he  stood  looking  down  upon  her,  and  ob- 
served politely :  "  You  were  about  to  say ?  " 

"It  would  serve  you  right  if  I  never  told  you  now," 
she  teased  him. 

But  he  was  not  without  sense:  "I  don't  know  that 
I'm  particularly  anxious  to  hear." 

"That's  always  the  way,"  she  said,  with  a  pensive 
face  in  her  hand.  "I  tell  you  I'm  made  over — a  new 
woman — and  you're  thinking  about  the  kennels  this 
very  minute." 

"That  charge  isn't  worth  answering.  Are  you  going 
to  explain  or  not  ?  " 

"Shall  you  be  glad  or  sorry,"  she  fenced,  "to  find  me 
different?" 

"I'll  not  commit  myself  yet." 

"You'll  be  glad,  I  suppose,  but  you  ought  to  say 
you'll  be  sorry.  But  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  said  you'd 
be  glad " 

"  Come  to  the  point,"  said  he,  but  gently  enough. 

"Well,  it's  about  that  boy  of  yours  upstairs" — she 
did  not  like  being  hurried. 

"Mine?"  he  interposed. 

"Yes,  your  son.  Oh,  if  you  only  had  a  grain  of 
instinct  in  understanding  women!" 

His  gentle  "I  do  my  best"  did  not  lessen  her  impa- 
tience. 

4 


Folly 

"Well,  perhaps:  but  you  seem  to  find  it  very  diffi- 
cult. Now  that  baby  of  yours " 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  disclaim  all  share  in  him 
at  the  present  moment?" 

"As  if  it  were  necessary  to  do  anything  else,"  said  she, 
with  high  scorn.  "Why,  I'm  his  mother!" 

"I  see." 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't;  not  even  remotely.  A  body  has 
to  be  plain  with  you.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  in  the  beginning, 
I  didn't  know  in  the  least  how  to  take  him." 

"Then  you  can't  expect  me  to  know  how  to  take 
you,"  he  retorted,  with  unexpected  briskness. 

"I  don't;  I  never  did.    But  that  doesn't  matter.    I 

always  hated  the  sound  of  the  word  matron " 

'But  you  braved  that  half  a  dozen  years  ago,  when 
you  married  me.  Isn't  mother  rather  better  on  the 
whole?" 

"No.  It  means  that  one  has  to  be  old  and  respon- 
sible." 

He  stood  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  staring 
at  a  fine  copy  of  the  "  Gran  Duca"  that  hung  just  over 
her  head,  but  not  unaware  of  her  watching  eyes.  "I 
can't  say  that  I'm  disappointed,  Florence.  I  never 
expected  you  to  like  it  much,  though  I  hoped  you  would. 
But  I  want  to  say  just  a  word :  jump  on  me  as  much  as 
you  please;  but,  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  take  it  out  of 
the  poor  little  chap!  He's  not  to  blame." 

"  Go  on,"  she  urged,  tightening  her  lips  in  a  curious 
smile. 

5 


Folly 

"I  had  it  on  my  mind  all  the  while  you  were  up- 
stairs," he  continued. 

"Naturally,  since  you  knew  I'd  hate  him.  What 
else?" 

"Well,  I  decided " 

"You  went  so  far  as  to  decide?" 

"That  if  you  didn't  take  kindly  to  him,  we'd  make 
sure  of  the  right  sort  of  nurse  and  pack  him  off  to  the 
mater." 

"You  did?  How  good  of  you!  So  I  needn't  be 
bothered  with  him  at  all?" 

"That's  it." 

"And  what  would  the  mater  think?" 

"She?  Oh,  she'd  have  no  end  of  fun.  She  ought 
to  have  had  twenty  kids  instead  of  one  poor  specimen. 
She's  a  right  sort,  the  mater." 

"I  like  your  plain  truths,  Andrew.  She's  not  my 
sort — eh  ?  Tell  me  now.  I  suppose  you  think  I  might 
take  a  fancy  to  put  him  out  of  the  way  ?  " 

"I  shouldn't  wonder."  His  eyes  twinkled,  but  he 
was  half  serious.  "You're  a  reversion  to  an  old  type, 
you  know.  You  ought  to  have  lived  when  you  could 
set  a  little  war  a-going  if  you  felt  bored;  or  poison  off 
a  few  relations  by  way  of  change.  You  would  have  had 
a  merry  life;  and  you  would  have  survived  to  a  ripe 
age  and  had  a  fine  tomb.  You're  sadly  out  of  place 
to-day."  He  concluded  musingly:  "I  wonder  how  far 
you  would  go — I  wonder  now." 

"And  sometimes  so  do  I,"  she  confessed.     "But, 


Folly 

***'*    ' 

faith,  I  never  know  from  one  moment  to  the  next  what 
I'm  going  to  do." 

"But  the  boy,"  he  reverted  to  the  point.  "They  say 
he's  an  uncommonly  fine " 

"Child,"  she  concluded  for  him  flippantly.  "They 
always  are.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  baby  that  wasn't  ? 
I  wonder  what  becomes  of  the  others?  Probably  sent 
to  baby  farms  and  killed  off.  Just  as  well.  If  the  un- 
commonly fine  ones  turn  out  as  badly  as  they  usually 
do,  it's  lucky  that  we're  spared  the  growing  up  of  the 
others." 

"Fireworks,"  was  his  brief  comment.  "The  ques- 
tion is,  do  you  want  the  mater  to  have  him?" 

"Have  you  asked  her?"  she  demanded,  with  a  sud- 
den sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

He  smiled.    "Not  yet,  naturally." 

"Not  yet,"  she  repeated.  "Well,  if  you  must  know — 
you're  always  in  such  a  hurry.  ..."  She  drew  him 
down  on  her  chair-arm,  and  reached  up  to  stroke  his 
hair;  but  she  had  an  exasperating  trick  of  letting  her 
hand  linger  on  the  little  round  spot  where  was  no  hair 
at  all.  "Come,  now,  I'll  tell  you.  When  they  first 
brought  him  up  for  me  to  see,  it  was  on  the  tip  of  my 
tongue  to  say — you  will  be  shocked!" 

"I  think  I'm  immune  to  shocks  by  this  time,  my  girl. 
Go  on." 

"It  was  so  like  a  new  kitten.  I  wanted  to  say,  'Take 
it  away  and  drown  it,'  if  only  for  the  fun  of  seeing 
nurse's  face.  But  I  knew  they'd  think  I  was  hysterical, 

7 


Folly 

so  I  lay  low  and  remarked  only,  'I  hope  it  will  grow 
prettier.'  As  it  was,  she  said  all  over  the  place  that  I 
was  a  heartless  woman.  But  honestly,  now,  could  I 
have  been  expected  to  like  it  ?  " 

"Women  seem  to  make  a  point  of  admiring  them," 
he  observed. 

"Oh,  women "  her  shoulders  went  high — 

"sheep!  But  it  was  a  puling,  drivelling,  lobster-faced 
squalling  thing,  with  heaps  of  unnatural  black  hair  that 
all  fell  out " 

"What  are  you  coming  to?"  he  demanded. 

"Why,  this.  Of  course,  I  should  have  done  my 
duty  by  him,  anyway.  We'd  talked  that  over  before." 

"A  model  child,"  he  groaned. 

"  But  the  curious  thing  was,  the  very  first  time  I  fed 
him,  as  soon  as  his  little  face  lay  against  my  breast — 
heavens!  I'm  talking  nonsense." 

"It's  a  new  sort  on  your  lips,  at  least,"  he  declared. 

"All  these  weeks  the  process  has  been  going  on;  and 
I  didn't  fairly  know  what  had  happened  until  I  stopped 
on  the  stairway  to-day  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
saw  the  meaning  of  that  smoky  old  Madonna  of  yours. 
I  think " 

"Yes,  yes,  you  think?" 

She  pushed  him  away,  for  he  was  leaning  to  her  more 
eagerly  than  she  liked.  "If  you  will  know — he  isn't 
such  a  bad  little  thing  after  all!" 

"You  mean  that  in  time  you  might  come  to — like 

him?" — his  voice  shook  with  eagerness. 

8 


Polly 

She  laughed  in  the  old  way.  "Why,  my  dear,  I  al- 
most think  I  do!" 

Thereupon  he  was  not  to  be  held  off  any  longer;  and 
indeed,  she  rebelled  but  little,  looking  at  him  with  eyes 
suddenly  grown  dark  and  dim  and  wistful.  After  a 
silence  she  whispered:  "I  thought  you  might  like  to 
know." 

"Miracles  do  happen,"  he  muttered,  more  to  himself 
than  to  her. 

"Yes.  I  should  never  have  believed  it  of  myself. 
But  he  was  so  helpless,  and  he's  growing  pretty,  too— 
however,  we  needn't  go  into  that.  The  mischief's  done." 

' '  Thank  heaven !   And  what  next  ? ' ' 

"Ah,  that's  the  point.  How  can  I  ever  live  up  to  it 
— him,  I  mean.  Poor  Folly!  You  have  spoiled  me, 
you  and  the  mater,  with  that  silly  pet  name.  I  suppose 
now  I  must  be  wise  and  good;  and  it  will  be  precious 
hard  work." 

"  So  I  may  look  upon  you  as  converted  ?  " — he  put  the 
matter  lightly. 

"On  the  Penitent  Form,"  said  she,  in  all  humility; 
then  hid  her  face  against  his  arm.  "You  will  help  me 
to  be  good  ?  " 

"Dandie  Junior  will  do  that,"  he  answered  gently; 
but  he  wondered,  as  he  had  wondered  a  thousand  times 
before,  what  meaning  lay  hidden  beneath  her  words. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  LITTLE  LOVER. 

SUNLANDS  lies  half  way  up  the  southern  slope  of 
Cunsden  Hill,  with  a  great  fir  wood  at  its  back  stretch- 
ing as  far  as  the  Common;  and  in  front,  park  lands, 
not  overburdened  with  trees,  rolling  down  to  the  river 
Leigh.  The  house  is  low  and  plain,  of  a  dull  stone 
vivified  by  an  abundance  of  fine  and  luxuriant  creeper 
— the  kind  of  house  that  you  would  suspect  and  in 
this  case,  rightly — of  being  set  out  with  Sheraton  and 
Chippendale,  with  Lowestoft  and  old  Crown  Derby, 
with  a  family  portrait  gallery,  a  secret  chamber,  and  a 
ghost. 

And  yet  no  part  of  it  is  older  than  the  days  of 
Queen  Anne;  for  it  was  in  the  reign  of  that  monarch 
that  the  first  Andrew  Christie,  commander  of  the 
frigate  Rupert,  rescued  a  valuable  cargo  of  bohea  from 
Malay  pirates  off  Singapore,  and  for  this  and  equally 
signal  services  in  the  American  colonies  was  rewarded 
with  a  fat  piece  of  Surrey.  To  this  he  added  by  pur- 
chase, and,  it  is  said,  other  devices,  until  in  the  present 

day  his  descendant  in  the  eighth  generation  owns  all 

10 


Folly 

that  he  can  see  from  any  window  of  his  house,  in  farms 
and  in  forest-land,  in  pasture  and  in  common,  together 
with  three  villages,  six  hamlets,  and  the  fishing  of  the 
Leigh  from  its  source  to  its  junction  with  the  Eden. 

The  garden  is  walled  off  from  the  park  to  surround 
pretty  well  three  sides  of  the  house;  and  of  this  the 
eastern  corner  is  laid  out  in  formal  Dutch  fashion, 
modelled  after  the  tiny  enclosed  square  at  Hampton 
Court,  likewise  beginning  with  clipped  arbours,  and 
falling  away  by  terraces  of  grass  and  quaintly-shaped 
flower-beds,  down  to  the  circular  fish-pond  set  out  with 
stiff  dwarf  cypresses  and  trimmed  yews. 

Late  in  April,  this  fish-pond  was  rimmed  deep  with 
yellow  jonquils.  One  golden  morning,  Folly,  not  con- 
tent with  the  great  sheaf  of  them  that  she  carried,  was 
stooping  for  more,  when — suddenly  troubled  with  a 
sense  of  being  observed — she  rose  and  turned  to  meet 
the  eyes  of  the  man  whom  she  had  familiarly  called  her 
"Little  Poet,"  and  rarely — in  jest,  be  it  understood — 
her  "Little  Lover." 

There  was  a  sudden  rain  of  jonquils,  and  a  great 
ado  collecting  the  scattered  blossoms  before  the 
proper  greetings  could  be  exchanged. 

"  Oh,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April's  there," 

was  his  answer  to  her  challenge:  "Where  did  you 
drop  from?" 

"Did  you  come  for  that?"  she  wished  to  know. 

"Isn't  that  enough?     Politely,  I  came  to  see  you 


Folly 

gathering  jonquils;   honestly,  I  had  some  business  to 
arrange." 

"Will  you  come  in?"  she  asked,  with  formal  courtesy. 

"It  would  be  much  pleasanter  to  walk  up  and  down 
in  this  arbour.  I'll  quote  you  spring  verses  and  love 
verses " 

"I've  heard  all  you  know,  I  think,"  she  interrupted 
brusquely. 

"There  you're  wrong.  I've  written  a  few  and 
learned  many — some  that  you  wouldn't  understand 
any  more  than  you  appreciate  that  exquisite  old  Ma- 
donna in  your  hall." 

"Ah,  one  learns,"  said  she,  with  a  sudden  sweet 
smile  that  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came.  "I  think  we'll 
go  in,  however." 

At  the  porch  she  paused  and  turned  to  him  with 
earnest  eyes  and  lips  parted  for  speech,  but  he  was 
too  quick  for  her  as  he  smiled  and  quoted: 

"O  quanta  siete  car  a  agli  occhi  mieil" 

She  blushed  painfully.  "  You  must  drop  all  that  sort 
of  thing  now.  Come  in  and  talk  to  me  of  art — Italy — 
gossip — scandal — anything  you  like  but  that." 

He  said  nothing  as  he  lounged  upon  the  window-seat 
and  looked  out  upon  a  peculiarly  brazen,  flaunting 
tulip-bed.  For  a  little  while  she  posed  in  an  antique 
carved  chair  that  emphasized  her  grace  of  outline;  but 
presently  she  began  to  fidget,  and  sighed  very  gently. 
Still  he  spoke  no  word.  At  last  she  was  driven  to 
demand:  "Are  you  never  going  to  say  anything?" 

12 


Folly 

"I  was  waiting  for  my  cue,  Folly,"  said  he. 

"Not  Folly."    She  was  amazingly  prim. 

He  lifted  one  eyebrow.    "Florence?" 

"Nor  that." 

"What  am  I  to  call  you,  then?" 

She  shrugged. 

"Mrs.  Christie,  may  I  ask,  is  your  husband  at 
home?" 

"In  Scotland.    Do  you  want  to  see  him?" 

It  was  his  turn  to  shrug:  "I  shall  be  quite  as  pleased 
to  see  him  as  he  to  see  me.  But  something's  come  over 
you,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken." 

She  smiled  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"Demure  isn't  the  word — you're  a  perfect  pussy- 
cat. I  don't  know  you.  When  did  I  see  you  last? 
You  have  changed." 

"It's  nearly  a  year,"  said  she.  "Much  can  happen 
in  a  year." 

"Ah,  true,"  he  granted,  and  turned  his  face  quite 
away  from  her.  She  had  to  repeat  her  next  question 
twice  before  he  heard:  "Am  I  prettier?" 

"Prettier?  You  never  were  pretty,  not  even  at  your 
best,  as  you  know  very  well;  but  you've  still  the  old 
smile  that  would  turn  the  head  of  the  devil  himself." 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  content;  then  asked  with 
hurried  irrelevance,  "What  brought  you  back?" 

"I  thought  you  didn't  want  to  know?" 

"Well,  I  do  now — I  mean — you  are  so  uninteresting, 
and  one  must  make  conversation." 

13 


Folly 

"I'll  tell  you  presently,"  said  he,  and  turned  again  to 
the  tulip-bed,  apparently  unaware  that  she  was  study- 
ing his  face. 

Indeed,  she  was  thinking  that  he  too  had  changed; 
but  she  could  not  see  how.  Perhaps  the  long,  sharp 
profile  was  a  trifle  sharper,  and  the  square  chin  a  trifle 
more  hard  set;  but  the  eyes  were  as  penetrating  as  ever, 
as  she  felt  when  he  again  turned  to  meet  her  glance. 

"There  were  four  abominable  blank  white  walls  in 
my  cell,"  he  began. 

"Cell?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  living  at  a  certosa,  you  see — a  little 
broken-down  monastery  in  the  wilderness  of  the  south- 
ern Alps.  You  wouldn't  know  the  vicolo  even  by  name. 
A  dozen  lean  monks,  down  at  heels,  sullen " 

She  moved  restlessly,  and  he  hurried  to  the  point: 
"You  came  there  every  night,  you  know,  and  frescoed 
those  white  walls." 

"No,  faith,  I  didn't!"  She  was  indignant,  but  she 
laughed  a  little  too. 

"Why,  sure  you  did!" — he  retained  certain  tricks 
of  speech  from  an  Irish  mother.  "And  weren't  you 
out  of  place  just?  You  would  have  been  anathema 
— is  that  it? — if  those  surly  fellows  had  suspected 
you.  I  used  to  chuckle  sometimes  to  think  how  their 
shaven  polls  would  have  bristled  to  see  what  I  saw, 
when  I  sat  in  their  cloister  with  the  City  of  God  on  my 
knees." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and  turned  to 
14 


Folly 

the  tulips  again.    She  said  nothing,  but  tightened  her 
lips  as  one  that  wishes  to  speak  and  will  not. 

"I  was  trying  to  work  at  your  poem — you  know — 
but  I  couldn't  get  on  with  it.  I  can't  say  when  you  will 
have  it  now." 

She  frowned  in  a  puzzled  way,  and  studied  him  in 
silence. 

"No  matter  for  that.  But  as  to  your  coming  there — 
I  suppose  I  had  reckoned  unduly  upon  my  virtue  in 
departing  last  summer,  as  soon  as  you  said — no,  I 
am  not  going  back  to  the  forbidden  subject.  I  thought 
I  had  earned  the  right  to  be  rid  of  you;  and  I  tried  to 
forget  you — no  doubt  about  it.  I  wanted  my  peace  of 
mind  again.  I  thought  it  would  be  a  brilliant  idea  to 
chain  you  up  in  verse — see?  But  you  broke  loose, 
night  after  night,  and  tormented  me  like — well,  like  a 
devil  of  the  good  old-fashioned  sort." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  you  mean,"  she  in- 
sisted coldly. 

"I  daresay  not.  Why,  you  came  in  every  conceiva- 
ble form  and  guise,  but  Folly  always — always  Folly — 
and  you  made  those  walls  blaze!  Kind  of  you,  wasn't 
it?  To  come  wasting  the  time  of  a  sensible  man,  and 
one  that  might  have  been  a  poet,  if  ..." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  clasped  his  knee,  with  the 
look  of  one  who  has  just  saved  himself  from  saying  too 
much. 

She  could  speak  now:  '"Might  have  been?  If?' 
What  do  you  mean?" 

15 


Folly 

He  laughed  rather  harshly:  "I'm  a  long  time  com- 
ing to  the  point;  but  it  isn't  easy  to  get  it  out.  You 
must  be  patient." 

Either  his  words  or  his  look  touched  her  into  sudden 
anxiety.  She  crossed  over  to  the  window  seat  and 
leaned  forward  pleadingly :  ' '  Haldane  ?  " 

"Now  who's  forgetting?"  His  tone  was  light  again. 
"  I  thought  you  had  given  up  old  names  for  old  friends  ?  " 

"No  matter.  Tell  me,  Haldane.  What  has  gone 
wrong  with  you  ?  Have  I  done ?  " 

"Nonsense!" 

"If  you  had  never  known  me ?" 

"I  should  have  missed  the  best  thing  I've  had  in  my 
life.  Don't  talk  bosh." 

"'Had?'"  she  repeated,  with  her  puzzled  frown. 

"You  put  it  all  into  the  past,  last  summer,  didn't 
you  ?  "  And  she  could  make  no  denial. 

"But  if  I  have  hurt  you  in  any  way ?" 

"  Not  you,  my — not  you,  I  assure  you.  Some  people 
call  it  Providence,  some  Chance,  some  Fate — the  woman 
with  the  shears  that  does  the  mischief.  I  incline  to 
believe  it's  sheer  bad  luck  myself;  but  it's  possibly  all 
my  own  fault — when  you  come  to  sift  the  matter." 

"  Oh,  you  talk  in  riddles,"  she  said  sorrowfully. 

"Then  maybe  I  got  the  trick  from  you;  but  I'm  com- 
ing out  somewhere.  I  told  you  to  have  patience.  The 
ways  you  came  to  me!  Never  twice  the  same,  of  course; 
a  different  Folly  every  day  and  only  a  mild  sisterly 

resemblance  among  them  all.    The  first  time,  you  were 

16 


Folly 

in  sea-green,  with  corals  and  slimy  tangle  in  your  hair; 
and  I  thought  it  was  Undine  until  I  saw  your  face. 
You  didn't  fit  the  part  somehow.  You  must  never  go 
in  for  tragedy,  you  know;  you  couldn't  rise  above 
melodrama.  You'd  make  up  best  for  comic  opera. 
However,  I  adored  you,  anyway.  Of  course,  I  adore 
you  all  the  time,  only  you  won't  believe  it.  ... " 

He  paused  for  breath,  and  she  wondered  at  him  in 
silence.  Never  before  had  she  heard  him  so  light,  so 
flippant,  so  disconnected." 

"I  don't  often  give  way  to  it,  that's  why.  What  was 
I  saying?  Oh,  yes,  another  time,  you  had  on  that 
hideous  scaly  iridescent  snaky  thing  I've  seen  you 
wear  in  town — detestable!  Always  reminds  me  of  the 
serpent  in  Paradise — makes  me  feel  like  Adam.  I  call 
it  a  singular  lapse  from  good  taste  on  your  part." 

He  waited  for  protest,  and,  as  none  came,  added : 
"You  are  more  silent  to-day  than  I  have  ever  before 
known  you  to  be." 

She  in  turn  gazed  out  at  the  tulip-bed  and  had  no 
answer  ready;  but  she  was  thinking:  "And  you  talk 
more." 

"  But  when  you  came  to  the  certosa  in  it,  and  put  your 
arms  about  my  neck " 

"  Don't  speak  that  way,"  she  broke  in  sharply. 

"But  you  did — sure!  Soft  and  warm  and  strong — 
strong  enough  to  strangle  me  if  you  had  liked.  ..." 

"No  wonder  you  can  write  love  poetry!" — she  tried 

to  be  scornful. 

2  17 


Folly 

"  With  such  experiences  ?  No  wonder."  But  she  had 
not  meant  that. 

"You  did  more.  You  laid  your  face  against  mine — " 

"Please,  Hal!" 

"A  little  thinner  than  it  was  when  I  had  seen  it  last, 
and  wet  with  tears.  .  .  .  You  don't  often  weep,  do 
you?" 

"I  shall  leave  you  if  you  don't  stop." 

"It  was  all  gospel  truth  to  me.  I  suppose  it  must 
have  been  illusion,  since  you  deny  it.  But  did  you 
never  think  of  me  in  that  way  then?" 

"I  may  have  had  foolish  thoughts  sometimes,  but  I 
never — never — unless  it  was  in  my  dreams  and  against 
my  will.  ..." 

"It  was  all  against  your  will,  Folly,"  he  said  quickly, 
"and  mine  too,  for  that  matter.  One  of  the  last  times, 
you  were  like  a  Greek  girl,  Nausicaa  or  somebody,  with 
your  hair  shining  and  slipping  through  your  fingers, 
and  your  eyes  gleaming  and  tempting  and  luring.  .  .  . 
It  was  then  I  swore  I'd  have  you,  if  nothing  else  in  this 
blessed  world!" 

"A  dangerous  vow,"  she  said  softly.  "You  did  not 
know  what  you  had  to  reckon  with.  But  why  '  nothing 
else'?  You  have  had  much;  you'll  have  more.  You 
talk  so  strangely  to-day." 

"  So  you're  still  interested  in  my  career,  are  you  ?  I 
believe  that  was  the  way  you  softened  the  blow  to  me 
last  summer  ?  You  said  you  would  be  always — remem- 
ber? So  I'm  talking  strangely,  am  I?  It  seems  to  me 


18 


Polly 

it's  yourself  that  is  strangely  suspicious.    It's  as  if  you 
had  an  instinct.  ..." 

"I  generally  have — when  there's  something  wrong," 
she  said,  looking  away  from  him  into  the  room.  "  But 
you  told  me  to  be  patient. " 

"A  little  longer.  I  don't  remember  when  it  was  that 
I  cried  out  in  my  sleep  and  roused  Fra  Antonio  from 
his  vigils;  but  I  know  he  gave  me  a  drink  that  ex- 
orcised you;  and  in  the  end  they  said  I'd  been 
having  fever.  A  simple  explanation — eh?  When  I 
recovered,  I  thought  I  had  said  good-bye  to  Folly  for 
ever  and  a  day;  but  one  evening  in  the  cloister — the 
monks  were  at  vespers — you  came  masquerading  as  a 
nun,  and  persuaded  me — I  don't  quite  know  how — 
that  you  had  forgotten  me  altogether." 

"And  so  I  had." 

"Well — well.  I  got  away  to  Milan  as  soon  as  I  could 
— there  was  another  reason,  as  you  shall  hear  presently. 
And  then  I  came  to  England.  Yesterday"  ...  he 
shrugged  or  shivered,  she  could  not  tell  which.  "To- 
day I  am  here." 

"And  to-morrow?" 

"That  depends" — he  smiled  at  her.  "You  say 
you  had  forgotten,  but  I  want  you  to  answer  a  plain 
question.  Did  you  ever — from  the  time  I  went  away 
until  now — wish  me  back  ?  " 

" Did  I  ever  .  .  . ?"  she  paled  a  little;  but  he  did  not 
see  this,  for  he  was  staring  at  the  tulips  again,  and  in- 
deed seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  question  until  she  in 
turn  asked,  "Why?" 

19 


Folly 

'  Why  ?  Because  I  fancied  you  did — that's  the  worst 
of  cultivating  the  imagination ;  and  twenty  times  I  was 
on  the  point  of  coming  over  to  see  whether  it  was  so." 

"But  I  forbade  you,"  she  said,  with  something  of 
sternness.  "Last  summer  we  drifted  quite  far  enough, 
and — and  since  then — I  have  been  all  right.  How  could 
I  have  been  otherwise — with  my  husband?" 

"That's  not  for  me  to  say.  I  suppose  my  second 
thought  was  nearer  the  truth  then,  when  I  reasoned  that 
it  was  your  vanity  I  had  touched,  not  your  heart.  And 
yet,  if  I  believed  that,  I  should  not  be  here  now." 

"You  must  believe  it,"  she  said  hurriedly.  " Do  you 
remember  the  day  we  parted  last  summer?" 

"Those  things  are  not  soon  forgotten,"  he  answered, 
with  a  tinge  of  bitterness. 

"Tell  me  what  I  said." 

"You  said  a  lot;  but  the  point  of  it  all  seemed  to  be 
that  while  you  had  not  broken  your  vows  to  your  hus- 
band, neither  had  you  kept  them — that  in  future  he 
should  be  the  barrier  between  us." 

"Ah,  that  was  it;  and  it  was  true.  And  I  think  it  is 
all  right.  You  have  not  told  me  what  you  came  for; 
but — have  you  heard  nothing  about  me  lately?" 

"Nothing.    Why?" 

"Not  in  town?" 

"I  haven't  seen  anybody  you  know,  I  think." 

"There  is  news." 

"Well?" 

He  waited;  but,  after  a  pause,  she  said  only :  "You'd 
better  tell  me  what  you  came  for." 

20 


Folly 

"No,  not  now;  it  needs  more  consideration.  What's 
your  news?"  he  persisted. 

"I'd  rather  show  you,"  she  declared. 

"Your  news?" 

"Yes." 

She  smiled  as  she  said,  brushing  back  her  fine  light 
hair:  "Look  at  me  well,  Haldane.  It's  the  last  time 
you'll  ever  see  the  me  you  put  into  your  verses." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  following  her  as 
she  rose  to  go.  "  Are  you  mad  ?  " 

"No," — she  smiled  at  him  over  her  shoulder — 
"only  changed,  as  you  have  already  observed." 

He  seized  her  hands  then:  "Folly,  there's  something 
I  want  to — I  must " 

"Don't  make  love  to  me,"  she  protested,  and  re- 
pented of  the  words  before  they  were  fairly  out,  for  she 
saw  that  she  had  misread  his  intention. 

"Not  yet.  I'll  wait  a  bit."  He  dropped  her  hands 
and  turned  away.  "  I  must  think  a  little  longer.  Show 
me  your  news,  then." 

At  the  door  she  turned  to  face  him,  with  one  hand  on 
each  post  and  her  most  whimsical  expression;  but  for  a 
second  his  look  checked  her  utterance.  She  had 
known,  of  course,  that  he  would  be  watching  her — all 
men  did — but  instead  of  passionate  admiration,  she 
encountered  an  unseeing  stare  that  went  through  her — 
to  what?  Still,  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to 
toss  him  a  butterfly  kiss  on  her  finger-tips  and  to  chant 
teasingly:  "It's  good-bye  to  Folly,  you  know,  good-bye 

to  Folly!" 

21 


Folly 

She  was  not  pleased  when  she  found  herself  a  pris- 
oner; and  she  blocked  her  ears  in  vain  to  the  angry 
voice  that  stormed  and  threatened:  "You  go  too  far. 
I've  never  kissed  you  yet;  but  I  will.  What  do  you 
mean?  Tell  me." 

In  self-defence  she  said  demurely:  "I  expect  Andrew 
every  minute." 

"What  the  devil !"  He  would  have  kissed  her 

then,  but  she,  daring  him  to  the  last  moment,  said: 
"You  should  have  been  like  this  a  year  ago.  I'm  dead 
to  you  now." 

Before  he  was  aware  that  his  grasp  had  loosened  she 
had  slipped  away.  Once  free,  she  let  her  laugh  float 
down  the  stairway,  and  the  teasing  chant:  "Good-bye 
to  Folly !  Good-bye  to  Folly ! " 


22 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHY      HE      CAME. 

THE  baby  objected  to  having  his  invisible  hair 
brushed,  and  howled  with  tears.  The  nurse  would  have 
yielded  the  point,  but  the  mother  was  inflexible,  on 
grounds  of  discipline,  as  she  took  care  to  explain. 
Further,  she  declined  to  take  him  downstairs  until  the 
creases  had  disappeared  and  his  face  was  again  its 
normal  pink.  Even  then  she  loitered  from  window  to 
window  of  the  pretty  blue  room,  and  strayed  along  the 
frescoed  rhymes,  which  she  herself  had  painted  in 
quaint  procession  round  the  four  walls,  to  make  the 
nursery  an  abode  fit  for  a  baby  king.  It  was  only  when 
she  perceived  the  nurse  staring  in  plain  wonder  at  her 
delay  that  she  finally  held  out  her  arms  for  the  child. 
Hence,  some  time  had  elapsed  before  she  slowly  de- 
scended the  great  stairway,  playing  at  the  pretty  game 
of  catch-and-kiss  with  the  tiny  fist  that  flapped  some- 
times against  her  cheek  and  sometimes  in  the  air. 

She  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  somebody  was  waiting 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps;  and  had  held  out  the  baby  with 
her  sweetest  smile  before  she  perceived  that  it  was  her 
husband,  not  her  guest. 

23 


Folly 

His  look  of  pleased  surprise  altered  upon  her  abrupt : 
"How  funny!  I  thought  you  were  Haldane  Gore.  I 
was  just  bringing  the  boy  down  to  show  him." 

"Gore?"  he  repeated  slowly.  "I  thought  he  was 
abroad  ?  " 

"He  turned  up  here  an  hour  ago." 

She  was  busying  herself  with  the  baby's  frills  when 
Christie  said :  "  Where's  my  welcome  ?  " 

"Chin-chin,"  she  retorted  gaily,  tilting  up  her  face 
so  that  he  might  kiss  it  if  he  pleased.  "You  haven't 
been  so  long  away  that  I  need  be  extravagantly  glad, 
need  I?" 

"Not  at  all — polite  merely,"  said  he,  feigning  not  to 
have  seen  the  offered  privilege,  as  he  opened  the  draw- 
ing-room door. 

Gore  rather  prided  himself  on  the  quickness  of 
his  self-control ;  but  it  was  sorely  tried  that  morning, 
when  he  turned  to  meet  Folly  with  a  passionate  phrase 
on  his  lips,  and  found  her  doubly  entrenched  behind 
a  stiff-looking  husband  and  an  elaborately-attired 
infant. 

He  smiled  afterward,  remembering  his  own  coolness, 
quite  sure  that  he  had  shown  no  trace  of  embarrassment, 
as  he  shook  hands  with  Christie  and  said  what  he  con- 
sidered the  proper  things  about  the  snub-nosed  full- 
moon  of  babyhood. 

Folly  looked  displeased  when  he  observed:  "Rather 
like  you  in  the  features,  isn't  it  ?  What  do  you 

call  it?" 

24 


Folly 

"He  is  Andrew  Junior,  of  course,"  she  answered 
with  dignity. 

And  Christie  broke  into  a  sudden  twinkle,  adding: 
"It's  a  pity  you  didn't  return  in  time  to  stand  sponsor 
at  his  baptism." 

"Thanks,  I  couldn't  have  done  it.  I  shouldn't  know 
how.  Doesn't  one  have  to  promise  that  he  won't  fall 
into  sin  or  something?  I  couldn't  have  undertaken  it, 
especially" — he  was  about  to  add,  but  stopped  in  time 
— "considering  who  is  his  mother." 

Christie  looked  at  him  oddly,  but  could  scarcely  have 
gathered  his  mental  self -admonition :  "If  you  must  be 
a  fool,  H.  G.,  don't  be  a  dam-fool." 

Folly  did  not  hear  all  this,  as  she  was  turning 
her  charge  over  to  the  nurse;  but  she  came  up  as 
Christie  said:  "You'll  be  stopping  with  us  some 
time?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I  have  an  engagement  in  town  to- 
night." 

"Not  to  dinner?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"  Sorry.    See  you  at  luncheon,  then." 

He  had  turned  away  when  Gore  said  slowly:  "I 
think  I  must  return  by  the  next  train.  I  had  only  an 
hour  or  two  to  spare.  Going  abroad  again  at  the  end 
of  the  week." 

Christie  made  a  gesture  of  polite  regret:  "Afraid  I 
must  leave  you  anyway.  There's  a  man  of  mine  been 
waiting  to  see  me  all  morning.  No  doubt  Mrs.  Christie 

25 


Folly 

will  ...  "  There  followed  a  proper  exchange  of  civili- 
ties and  adieus. 

When  the  two  were  again  alone,  she  faced  him  with 
a  quick:  "So  you're  going?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  haven't  told  me " 

"I'm  knocked  out,  you  see — bowled  over  by  a  six- 
weeks-old — is  it  ? — youngster." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  it?"  she  demanded. 

"Why — in  short — everything,"  he  laughed.  "But 
I'm  glad  I  came,  for  several  reasons.  It's  just  as  well 
to  know  that  you  don't  care  a  rap  about  me." 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked  slowly,  "that  I  ever 
did?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  not.  You  thought  so  once. 
So  did  I.  But  it  will  be  easier  now  to  know  that  you 
don't."  He  laughed  suddenly :  " I  suppose  it  can't  do 
any  harm,  as  things  are,  to  tell  you  what  I  came  down 
for.  It  may  amuse  you:  it  was  only  to  ask  you  to 
throw  up  the  sponge,  and" 

"And ?" 

"And  come  away  with  me." 

She  bit  her  underlip:  "Why?  What  claim  have 
you ?" 

"Ah,  that's  the  point.  I  thought — after  much  think- 
ing— that  if  you  still  cared,  perhaps  I  had  a  sufficient 
claim.  But  there's  the  boy.  And  you  don't  care." 
He  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  picking  up  things 

and  setting  them  down  again,  all  the  while  intoning  a 

26 


Folly 

foolish  little  song  that  he  had  made  long  ago  and  she 
had  once  said  she  hated.    It  begins : 

"When  I  was  young  and  went  to  war — " 

"I  know  there's  a  strange  reason — a  good  reason," 
she  said,  under  her  breath. 

He  paused  and  looked  straight  at  her,  but  answered 
only  in  the  words  of  the  song: 

"Now  I  am  old  and  cracked  and — " 

"  Don't  sing  that  nonsense,"  she  interrupted  irritably. 
"Well,  then" — he  continued  his  roving — "how  do 
you  like  this  ? 

" '  I  had  a  wife  in  Middelburg, 
And  one  I  had  in  Dene; 
But  when  they  asked  me — '  " 

"Oh,  that's  worse!" 

"Well,  what  did  they  ask  me?   The  answer  is: 

" 'I  could  not  choose  between.'" 

"Oh,  Hal,  Hal!" — there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"My  dear  girl,  I'm  trying  to  tell  you  something  with- 
out using  plain  English.  And  first  it's  one  way  and  then 
another;  but  they  all  fail.  You  are  blind.  I  must  be 
going." 

With  her  hands  clasped  across  her  knees,  she  looked 
at  him:  "I  know  it's  terrible.  And  I'd  rather  have  it 
from  you  than  from  anyone  else." 

"There's  reason  in  that,  perhaps" — he  paused  be- 
27 


Folly 

fore  her.  "But  I  was  a  cad  to  mention  the  matter  at 
all.  Of  course,  I  didn't  understand  then  how  things 
are.  You'll  have  to  know  sometime.  It  can't  make 
much  difference  to  you." 

"Tell  me,"  she  pleaded. 

"Here  goes,  then.  I'm  sentenced,  that's  all."  He 
laughed  and  resumed  his  pacing. 

Her  face  showed  that  she  did  not  understand. 

"  Don't  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  We  all  die  sooner  or 
later;  but  I've  the  luck  of  knowing  my  limit.  I  came 
back  to  England  especially  to  find  out." 

"What  is — your  limit?"  she  asked,  scarcely  above  a 
whisper. 

"A  year,  more  or  less.    Now  do  you  sec  ? : 

"Who  said  so?" 

"  Gregory.  The  other  chaps  wouldn't  commit  them- 
selves." 

"Were  there — many — doctors?" 

"A  whole  hive  buzzing  about  me.  That  was  Greg's 
doing,  too.  But  they  pretty  well  agreed,  I  think,  that 
the  game  is  nearly  up  and  there's  nothing  to  do.  Do 
you  see  now  why  I  wanted  you  ?  Abominably  selfish ' 
of  me  to  come,  wasn't  it  ?  But  it  doesn't  matter  now. 
'I  had  a  wife '" 

"Ah,  stop!  They  didn't  tell  you  that — it  is  hope- 
less?" 

He  stood  before  her  again.  "I  can't  say.  I  knew  a 
chap  once,  an  old  sailor — had  the  same  thing.  He  was 

cheerful — called  it  a  bad  throat,  and  was  always  ex- 

28 


Folly 

pecting  to  get  the  better  of  it;  but  it  did  for  him.  It 
upsets  you  to  hear  about  such  things,  doesn't  it?  I'm 
a  brute.  I'll  be  off.  Don't  worry." 

"They  may  be  wrong — I  mean  the  doctors,"  she 
said  quietly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Sure.    But  Greg's  pretty  thorough,  as  a  rule." 

She  rose,  crossed  over  to  the  fireplace  and  leaned  her 
elbows  on  the  mantel,  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  star- 
ing at  the  clock.  "You  spoke  of  a  particular  train?" 

"Yes.  I  can  do  it  easily.  No,  thanks,  I'd  rather 
walk.  Well — good-bye — for  the  present." 

They  shook  hands,  casually  it  seemed;  but  his  thin 
hot  fingers  gripped  hard  hers  that  were  passive  and 
cold. 

"I  shall  hope  for  better  news  of  you,"  she  said,  not 
lifting  her  eyes. 

"You  are  very  good,"  he  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
irony. 

"You  will  let  me  hear?  I  shall  expect  to  hear,"  she 
continued,  in  the  same  restrained  voice.  "And  you  will 
leave  nothing  undone?  It  is  a  duty.  .  .  .  And  there's 
always  the  chance.  ..." 

"  Of  discovering  the  bacillus  ?  Sure.  Only  he's  been 
discovered  rather  often  before." 

"I "  there  speech  failed  her  altogether. 

"I'd  no  business  to  come  thrusting  my  penny  trou- 
bles on  you,  you  know.  It  would  have  been  different  if 
you  had  cared.  Don't  waste  another  thought  on  me. 
I'm  mortal  glad  you  have  the  little  chap." 

29 


Folly 

She  did  not  realize  that  he  had  gone  until  she  found 
herself  staring  at  the  closed  door,  and  wondering  that 
the  room  whirled  and  grew  dark  about  her.  It  was 
absurd  that  she  who  almost  never  fainted.  .  .  . 
Through  the  gathering  dimness  there  shot  before  her 
mind  a  strangely  clear  memory  of  Haldane  and  herself, 
walking  through  the  woods,  just  before  she  had  sent 
him  away.  They  had  come  upon  a  rabbit  in  a  trap, 
not  dead ;  and  when  she  had  turned  sick  at  the  cries  of 
the  hurt  thing,  he  had  dragged  her  away  to  a  fallen 
log,  saying:  "Put  your  head  down — so — on  your  knees. 
Brings  the  blood  back."  And  then  he  had  gone  away 
to  free  the  rabbit  or  to  kill  it.  ...  To-day,  even  while 
the  sound  of  his  musical  drawl  was  still  lingering  in  her 
ears — to-day  it  seemed  that  he  was  the  hurt  thing  in  the 
trap.  .  .  . 

She  dropped  her  face  upon  her  knees;  but  too  late, 
for  with  the  very  act  her  thinking  came  to  an  end. 


3o 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  TRAP. 

A  GREAT  shock  mercifully  stuns,  and  blunts  the  edges 
of  feeling;  but  the  little  attendant  circumstances  of  life 
that  hover  round  it  sting  waspishly,  although  the  very 
pain  of  them  may  speed  the  healing  of  the  hurt. 

The  soft-toned  gong  from  Sumatra  that  announced 
luncheon  stirred  Folly  from  her  realisation  that  the 
centre  of  her  life  was  no  longer  her  husband  and  child, 
but  this  man  whom  she  had  once  held  lightly  and  sent 
away,  who  had  again  come  to  claim  her,  with  the  grip 
of  death  upon  him. 

At  first  she  would  not  go  down,  and  made  up  a  dozen 
excuses  to  send ;  but  presently  she  perceived  the  futility 
of  resistance.  Thousands  of  times  she  would  have  to 
live  through  these  daily  functions — why  shirk  one? 
She  descended  the  broad  sweep  of  the  stairway,  grace- 
ful, seemingly  nonchalant,  and  a  little  late  as  usual; 
and,  as  usual,  her  husband  was  waiting  for  her. 

Christie  was  in  a  merry  mood  that  day.  He  was  pros- 
pering with  the  world;  he  had  made  a  lucky  deal  in 
Scotland,  and  had  heard  upon  his  return  that  a  doubt- 
Si 


Folly 

ful  speculation  had  proved  a  success.  He  was  full  of 
anecdotes  and  funny  stories. 

His  wife,  across  the  table,  found  that  it  was  possible 
to  laugh,  to  listen  and  comment,  to  return  joke  for  joke, 
to  eat  salad,  to  talk  lightly  of  her  visitor  and  other 
matters.  The  wind  chased  the  clouds  along  the  tree- 
tops,  the  fitful  sun  streaked  the  grass  with  gold,  the 
blue  Persian  dozed  on  the  hearth — all  unchanged 
since  breakfast- time.  Her  husband  talked  on  and  on; 
but  what  she  heard  chiefly  was  the  rumble  of  the  north- 
bound express.  Now  it  would  be  at  this  station,  and 
now  at  this;  and  now  its  passengers  would  be  scatter- 
ing among  the  thoroughfares  of  London. 

The  hour  wore  away,  and  Christie  said,  as  they  rose 
from  the  table:  "I  shall  be  busy  with  the  rent-roll  all 
afternoon." 

She  left  him  to  his  cigar,  almost  glad  to  return  to 
her  trouble.  It  was  a  long  dizzy  journey  up  the 
stairway;  but  she  had  a  faint  comfort  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  had  played  well  the  beginning  of  the  new 
game. 

In  the  passage  above  she  hesitated  just  perceptibly, 
then  turned  aside  into  the  nursery.  The  baby  was 
asleep  by  the  fire  in  the  cradle  that  had  rocked  four  or 
five  generations  of  Christies.  Folly  came  in  so  softly 
that  she  was  not  perceived  by  the  nurse  sewing  in  the 
window  embrasure;  bent  over  the  child,  touched  his 
cheek,  drew  back  the  coverlet  a  trifle,  moved  the  cradle 
a  few  paces  further  from  the  heat;  leaned  and  looked 

32 


Folly 

for  some  moments,  then  stole  away  as  silently  as  she 
had  entered. 

She  went  into  her  own  room,  at  last  alone 
with  her  sorrow.  Immediately  she  crossed  to  the  long  win- 
dow that  opened  upon  the  balcony,  and  flung  it  wide  to 
the  sweet  air  and  showery  sunshine.  "I  must  keep 
quiet,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  think  it  through.  It's 
impossible  to  go  on  like  this.  There's  a  way  out  and 
it's  for  me  to  find.  I  always  find  a  way." 

But  for  a  long  time  she  only  stared  across  the  fir-tops 
to  the  open  wold,  and  beyond  the  open  wold  to  the 
cloudy  blue  Downs  that  hide  the  Channel.  Her  one 
conscious  thought  was  that  in  all  this  bewildering  new 
life  of  the  spring,  she  alone  was  in  the  shadow  of  death. 

To  be  quiet — she  pleaded  with  herself.  Quiet — 
when  the  great  wings  of  love  were  beating  in  her  heart! 
What  in  the  wide  spaces  of  this  earth  mattered  any- 
thing but  his  life  ?  To  go  away  with  him — to  be  happy 
a  little  while;  and  then — there  were  many  paths  that 
led  out  of  suffering — people  had  found  them  before.  .  . 

There  flashed  before  her  mind  a  sudden  image  of  the 
Morgue  at  Paris,  as  she  had  seen  it  once  in  her  old 
student  time.  For  days  and  days  she  had  walked  past 
the  low  excrescent  structure  by  the  bridge,  goading 
herself  into  the  belief  that  as  an  artist  she  ought  to  go 
in,  hating  herself  for  her  cowardice  in  shrinking  from 
what  was  there.  And  at  last  she  had  entered.  A  choice 
of  ways  ?  There  was  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life  with  a 
bullet-hole  in  his  green  and  sunken  temple;  he  looked 
3  33 


Folly 

as  if  he  had  been  clever,  prosperous.  .  .  .  The  girl — 
drowned,  they  said,  poor  thing!  Her  forehead  was  too 
high;  it  needed  curls.  Doubtless  she  had  worn  them 
in  life  and  was  pretty.  Stripped  of  them,  she  looked 
unnaturally  bare,  immodest.  .  .  .  And  the  old  woman 
— yet  not  so  old — with  the  cavernous  cheeks — they  had 
recorded  her  as  a  clear  case  of  starvation.  .  .  .  Had 
one  the  choice  of  ways?  For  Haldane  the  course  was 
appointed,  unless  he  chose  to  cut  it  short.  .  .  . 

"  So  young  to  die! " — she  broke  into  a  sob — " so  much 
too  young — O  God!"  She  sank  upon  her  knees  and 
laid  her  face  on  her  arms  crossed  on  the  balustrade. 
"I  must  be  quiet  and  find  a  way." 

One  of  the  gardeners  was  standing  just  below,  study- 
ing with  a  critical  eye  the  tulip-bed — that  same  flaunt- 
ing  tulip-bed.  He  whistled  in  friendly  rivalry  with  a 
blackbird  that  swung  on  a  bough  above  him.  He  was 
to  be  married  soon,  she  remembered.  The  banns  had 
been  read  twice;  and  Andrew  was  doing  up  a  cottage 
for  the  young  folk.  Every-day  honest  love — theirs. 
They  would  be  poor  always,  and  stupidly  happy;  and 
would  bring  up  a  large  family  just  as  ruddy  and  stupid 
and  happy.  And  each  of  these  in  turn  would  find  a 
mate  and  do  likewise;  and  so  they  would  go  on  forever 
and  ever,  world  without  end 

"Amen!"  she  said  aloud,  and  laughed  a  little;  and 
then  again,  to  think  that  she  had  laughed  before. 

After  all,  what  did  it  matter  whether  Haldane,  or 
Andrew,  or  she,  or  anybody,  was  happy?  Happiness 

34 


Folly 

was  a  luxury  to  be  snatched  in  odd  moments;  but  to 
play  the  game — that  was  what  we  were  put  into  the 
world  for.  .  .  . 

There  were  stone  flower-vases  at  intervals  along  the 
balustrade;  and  from  some  of  these  earth  had  been 
washed  over  and  strewn  along  the  coping.  She  began 
idly  to  trace  a  pattern  in  the  clay;  to  crumble  it  and 
toss  it  in  the  air. 

"Clay — dust — in  the  wind  and  sun — wet  into  clods 
by  the  rain — frozen,  thawed,  mixed,  scattered,  taken 
up  by  plants  that  are  fed  upon  by  beasts — we're  made 
of  that;  and  to  it  we  return  when  the  circle  of  trans- 
formation is  complete.  Here's  a  speck — Andrew;  and 
one  for  Haldane  and  one  for  me.  I  push  them  about, 
toss  them  into  the  air:  let  them  settle  where  they  will. 
Does  God  play  that  way  with  us,  I  wonder  ?  .  .  .  And 
we  think  that  we're  so  important;  we  matter  so  much 
to  ourselves;  perhaps  the  grains  of  dust  do,  too." 

But  then  she  caught  her  breath  with  the  gasp:  "He 
loves  life — I  can't  let  him  die!" 

It  came  to  her  presently  as  very  odd  that  she  should 
be  striving  this  way  for  some  one  else — she  who  had 
always  been  the  centre  of  her  little  world.  Even  in  her 
dimly-remembered  home  she  could  see  herself  as  the 
spoiled  baby.  At  school  she  had  always  led  in  the 
mischief  and  the  games.  With  Andrew  her  comfort 
was  put  before  every  other  thing.  Only  with  her  child 
had  she  begun  to  learn  slowly  the  joy  of  giving  without 
return;  and  now  suddenly,  the  centre  of  her  life  was 

35 


Folly 

outside  herself,  and  she  was  struggling  to  regain  her 
balance.  There  was  an  element  of  unfairness  in  the 
dispensation  that  stirred  her  to  flame:  "If  I  had  not 
sent  him  away — if  I  had  not  tried  to  do  my  duty  .  .  . 
I  was  willing  to  give  him  up;  but  not  for  this." 

She  had  walked  voluntarily  a  mile  or  two  along  the 
stony  path  of  virtue;  and  God  had  demanded  that  she 
follow  it  all  the  way  through  the  endless  desert.  .  .  . 

She  must  leave  this  nonsense,  she  told  herself,  and 
come  to  the  facts;  and  of  these  the  one  great  reality  was 
that  his  life  was  in  danger  and  must  be  saved.  But 
how?  She  considered  the  possibility  that  the  disease 
might  be  of  a  less  perilous  nature  than  he  had  supposed; 
but  she  knew  that  he  would  not  have  rested  until  he 
had  made  sure.  She  even  asked  herself  whether  he 
might  have  deceived  her,  to  test  her  love;  but  the  man- 
ner of  his  coming  and  going  was  sufficient  to  vindicate 
his  honour  in  that.  ...  It  all  turned  then  on  the 
chance  of  a  remedy.  Had  they  thought  of  everything? 
Would  they  try  everything  ?  He  was  not  a  rich  man — 
she  found  some  faint  comfort  in  considering  ways  and 
means.  Her  money  was  tied  up;  but  the  income,  all 
or  nearly  all,  she  could  devote  to  this  purpose.  ...  If 
he  would  have  it  ?  Ah,  she  must  wait  until  he  sent  her 
news,  and  then  everything  that  brain  could  devise  or 
hands  could  effect  should  be  tried.  .  .  .  And  if  in  the 
end  it  all  came  to  nothing  .  .  .  ? 

She  stepped  back  into  the  room  and  began  to  move 

aimlessly  about,  but  all  at  once  put  her  hands  to  her 

36 


Folly 

ears  as  if  to  shut  out  some  unwelcome  sound.  She 
knew  that  the  house  was  absolutely  still,  and  yet  the 
air  seemed  ringing  with  the  words:  "Would  you  go  to 
him  then?  Would  you  go?"  She  walked  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  to  avoid  answering  that  question. 

In  the  midst  of  this  hurly-burly,  she  heard  another 
cry — the  angry  wail  of  a  child  that  thinks  itself 
neglected.  Mechanically  she  opened  her  door  and 
turned  towards  the  nursery,  but  before  she  had  gone 
many  steps  the  sound  changed  into  the  half-contented 
gurgle  that  usually  follows  gentle  jogging  on  a  knee. 

On  a  sudden  impulse  she  turned  aside  into  a  room 
that  she  used  as  studio  when,  as  happened  more  and 
more  rarely,  the  whim  for  painting  seized  her. 

"Would  you  go?"  was  still  in  her  ears,  as  she  went 
up  to  the  easel  on  which  stood  an  unfinished  portrait. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  she  drew  near  that  its  quizzical 
smile  deepened,  as  if  saying:  "Are  you  coming,  then, 
after  all?" 

She  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  stood  there  with  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her.  She  was  always  best  at  por- 
traits, but  this  was  better  than  she  had  supposed. 
She  had  somehow  caught  the  elusive  spirit  of  the  man, 
which  informed  the  heavy  brow,  gave  changing  lights 
to  the  gray-blue  eyes,  twisted  the  smile  and  set  the  jaw, 
cast  a  network  of  fine  lines  over  the  tanned  skin,  thinned 
and  whitened  the  light  hair  about  the  temples.  .  .  . 
She  knew  that  it  was  himself.  .  .  . 

In  the  nursery  adjoining,  the  baby's  gurgle  became 
37 


Folly 

again  a  fretful  cry,  but  ceased  suddenly,  replaced  by 
the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  humming.  She  had 
scarcely  realised  that  it  was  her  husband  soothing  the 
child,  when  he  came  in  through  the  open  door,  with 
the  boy  in  his  arms. 

She  did  not  move  away  from  the  easel.  "What  do 
you  think  of  this?" 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows,  but  answered  quietly  enough: 
"It's  the  best  thing  you  have  done;  but  I  didn't  know 
he  had  sat  for  you." 

"Nor  did  he.  I  had  some  rough  sketches  and  a  pho- 
tograph; but  it  was  painted  chiefly  from  memory.  It's 
alive,  is  it?" 

"The  hand  is  particularly  good,"  he  commented. 
"Those  cigarette  stains  now  are  convincing;  and  the 
ring " 

She  turned  away  a  moment;  she  had  given  Haldane 
the  seal  that  he  always  wore  on  his  little  ringer. 

"Better  send  it  to  the  Academy  next  March."  His 
tone  was  cool  and  critical,  but  not  unfriendly  or  even 
suspicious. 

"Have  you  finished  for  to-day?  What  were  you 
doing  in  the  nursery?  Where's  nurse?  What's  the 
matter  with  baby?"  she  demanded,  in  a  breath. 

"Answer  'em  all  at  once — eh?"  he  said  good- 
humouredly.  "Here  goes  then.  Yes.  Amusing  my- 
self. I  don't  know — gossiping  in  the  kitchen  prob- 
ably. A  fit  of  temper.  Anything  else?" 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  the  child,  but  was  her- 
self taken  prisoner. 

38 


Folly 

"Now  I've  got  you  both,"  said  he.  "One  for  each 
arm." 

She  laughed  with  unnatural  shrillness.  "Safe.  In  a 
trap.  How  long  can  you  keep  me  there?" 

"How  long?  As  long  as  I  please.  Or  rather" — 
his  underlip  shot  out — "  as  long  as  you  like  to  stay.  I 
don't  want  you  longer  than  that." 

She  laughed  again,  and  he  demanded  the  reason. 

"  I  was  remembering  what  Mab  Patrick  said  to  me 
on  our  wedding-day — that  you  were  so  suitable — that 
was  her  word.  But  if  it's  true,  you  know,  you'll  be 
able  to  keep  me  in  the  trap  forever." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  he  curtly.  "If  at  any  time 
you  wish  to  go,  you  can  go  when  you — damn  please! 
I'll  not  stop  you." 

"But  this?"  she  wondered,  taking  the  baby  from 
him.  "Would  this?" 


39 


CHAPTER  V. 

AFTER  THE  GUILLOTINE. 

GORE  walked  slowly  down  the  elm-shaded  road  to 
the  station,  trailing  his  stick  behind  him,  and  whistling 
under  his  breath.  He  was  meditating  that  the  process 
of  guillotine  was  not  so  unpleasant,  once  the  head 
had  rolled  into  the  basket.  Love — passion — hope — 
responsibility — worry — despair  were  words — breath — 
lighter  than  thistle-down;  what  remained  was  the 
present  moment  untouched  by  the  shadow  of  past  or 
future. 

A  small  boy  in  pursuit  of  a  cat  plumped  squarely 
into  him,  was  seized  and  held  fast:  "What's  your  wish, 
my  man  ?  What  do  you  want  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world?" 

The  urchin  stared. 

"  Come,  now,  tell  me.    You  shall  have  it." 

"Pho!" — with  the  contempt  of  unbelief.  "Lemme 
go."  The  prisoner  wriggled  vainly  for  freedom. 

"I  mean  it,  you  know.    You'd  better  tell." 

"What  you  givin'  us?"    He  was  still  incredulous. 

"What  you  like." 

40 


Foliy 

Then  the  boy  accepted  the  situation.  "Marbles," 
he  said  briefly. 

Dazed  at  first  by  the  coin  in  his  hand,  he  presently 
gave  a  whoop  of  joy  that  was  worth  hearing. 

"To-day  and  to-day,"  Gore  was  thinking,  as  he 
entered  the  station.  "Three  hundred  days,  perhaps 
more.  It's  something  even  for  a  penny-poet  with  the 
world  behind  him." 

The  train  was  late,  but  he  was  not  impatient  as  he 
strolled  up  and  down  the  platform,  his  eyes  bent  upon 
a  sturdy  young  willow  swaying,  although  with  tough 
resistance,  as  the  clouds  drifted.  And  as  he  walked, 
the  words  came: 

"  Oh,  the  lusty  wind  is  driving  his  sheep 

In  the  endless  meads  of  blue; — 
And  the  whisper  that  stirs  the  buds  from  sleep, 

Biddeth  the  heart  of  you: 
'Come,  come,  with  the  crust  of  frost  have  done! 

To-morrow 

For  sorrow, 
To-day  be  glad  in  the  sun! '  " 

He  was  standing  under  the  willow  when  the  rhymes 
continued,  and  he  listened  to  them  as  to  a  voice  sing- 
ing: 

"  Oh,  the  thrill  of  green  on  the  bare,  black  tree 

Tingles  again  in  my  heart; 
And  the  things  that  were,  and  the  things  to  be, 
And  the  things  for  aye  set  apart, 
41 


Folly 

Now — now  are  all  with  my  life  at  one! 

To-morrow 

For  sorrow, 
To-day  be  glad  in  the  sun!" 

He  took  out  his  note-book,  but  put  it  away  without 
writing.  His  to  live,  not  to  give — his  head  seemed  full 
of  rhymes,  now  that  he  had  laid  aside  rhyming.  He 
had  produced  his  share  of  poor  verses — enough  to 
encourage  the  paper  trade  and  furnish  hack-work  to 
critics.  For  the  rest  of  his  days  he  would  look  on,  and 
learn  what  life  could  teach  a  man  so  sharply  and  igno- 
miniously  relegated  to  the  office  of  spectator. 

After  that,  for  a  while  he  was  content  not  to  think 
at  all.  His  mind  was  full  of  scraps  of  old  melodies  that 
he  had  loved  and  sung  in  the  past;  and  these  drifted 
in  and  out  as  they  would : 

"'When  as  the  rye  reach  to  the  chin, 
And  chopcherry,  chopcherry  ripe  within' — 

that's  for  summer,  and  it's  only  April  now. 

" '  Drink  to-day  and  drown  all  sorrow, 
You  shall,  perhaps,  not  do  it  to-morrow — ' 

ah,  that's  the  idea  I  was  trying  to  get.     But  as  for 
the  wine-bibbing,  I  think  my  way  is  the  better. 

"'The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet' — 
42 


Folly 

there  now,  I  shall  have  time  to  read  my  Chaucer 
again. 

"  'Young  lovers  meet,' 

— and  Petrarch — 

'  old  wives  a-sunning  sit ' — 

here's  another  chap  has  found  out  the  joy  of  the  sun. 
It  was  all  said  centuries  ago — all  I  could  ever  find 
to  write  .  .  .  ' 

He  travelled  third  class,  with  a  feeling  that  in  his 
detachment — perhaps  because  of  it — he  must  keep 
near  to  humanity.  As  a  broken  link,  he  felt  the  more 
his  place  in  the  chain.  But  the  crowded  stuffy  carriage 
changed  his  mood.  At  first,  some  chance  association 
brought  up  a  memory  of  his  initial  journey  to  London, 
nearly  twenty  years  before.  He  had  travelled  in  a  car- 
riage as  tightly  packed,  as  evil-smelling,  no  doubt;  but 
then  his  eager  fingers  were  feeling  for  the  pulse  of  life, 
and — droll  enough — he  was  too  keenly  alert,  too  for- 
ward, too  strenuous,  to  count  its  beats.  He  was  blinded 
by  his  own  hopes,  deafened  by  the  rhymes  he  was  to 
sing,  to  the  reality  about  him.  .  .  .  On  this  day,  he 
could  look  quietly  and  see  things  as  they  were;  but 
looking,  he  grew  chilled.  He  believed  that  he  could 
read,  in  a  measure,  the  history  of  each  face;  and  he 
was  saddened  by  the  sordid  commonplaces  they 
seemed  to  tell.  Narrow  and  respectable,  careworn 
always,  smug  occasionally,  diseased  here  and  there — 

43 


Folly 

bodies  and  souls  moving  restlessly,  working  aimlessly, 
bound,  according  to  their  various  lights,  for  the  king- 
dom of  heaven — what  had  he  in  common  with  such  as 
these?  Like  them,  he  was  born  and  grew,  loved  and 
worked  and  suffered,  and  would  die;  but,  for  the  rest, 
there  was  the  gulf  between  them,  that  they  accepted 
whatever  came,  with  small  thought  and  less  question- 
ing, while  he  pondered  and  strove  to  find  the  reason 
beneath  the  things  themselves.  .  .  .  He  smiled  at  his 
own  conceit;  but  soon,  wearied  of  this  unprofitable 
comparison,  he  turned  to  his  window  and  watched  the 
gliding  past  of  the  chequered  earth,  with  the  green 
pasture-lands,  budding  crops  in  the  red-brown  loam, 
and  distant  purple-blue  woods.  He  reminded  himself 
that  he  was  living  in  the  moment  now;  and  yet  the 
more  that  he  strove  to  fix  his  attention  on  the  visible 
colours  without,  the  more  he  found  himself  fluttering 
over  the  pages  of  the  invisible  book  of  memory. 

He  seemed  to  see  again  the  Yorkshire  fells,  and  an 
Irish  mother  who  danced  with  him  in  and  out  of  the 
heather;  the  dull  form  of  an  ancient  grammar  school 
as  case-hardened  as  four  hundred  years  of  tradition 
could  make  it;  and  then  his  father's  warehouse  and 
the  sickening  smell  of  the  wool.  For  him  the  bells  of 
Beverley  tolled  out  nothing  but  wool — wool — wool — 
all  the  long  years  that  he  sat  at  his  desk  alternating 
accounts  with  surreptitious  verses  on  stray  sheets  of 
paper. 

His  reward  came  on  his  twenty-first  birthday,  when, 
44 


Polly 

by  way  of  gift,  his  father  announced  that  he  should 
thenceforward  have  a  third  part  interest  in  the  busi- 
ness. All  at  once  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  his  throat 
and  nostrils  and  eyes  were  stuffed  with  wool,  that  it 
was  packed  about  him,  smothering  him,  until  at  length 
he  freed  himself  by  choking  out  the  words:  "I  don't 
want  it.  I'm  going  to  be  a  poet." 

"God-dam!" — he  could  hear  yet  the  amazed  voice 
of  his  father.  "  You  are,  are  ye  ?  And  when,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

"Now." 

"And  where,  then?" 

"In  London." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him,  knocking  the  end  of 
his  stick  against  the  floor,  as  if  with  the  fierce  desire  of 
beating  something.  There  were  sparks  in  his  blue 
eyes,  but  his  voice  was  quiet — too  quiet — as  he  growled  : 
"And  what  have  ye  got  to  write  about?"  His  question 
was  wiser  than  he  knew. 

"Wool!— "the  boy  had  laughed  Byronically.  "But 
I  shall  learn  something  else." 

Then  the  old  man  had  fallen  a-trembling, 
and  his  voice  rose  high:  "Poet,  is  it?  And  you  the 
only  son  I've  got!  That's  your  mother's  doing;  and 
she  in  her  grave.  Poet?  Like  Tom  Moore  and  all 
that  ruck?  Be  off,  then!  To-day,  mind!  I'm  done 
with  ye — God-dam!" 

And  so  he  had  journeyed  up  to  London  with  a  bag- 
ful of  verses,  and  had  found  them  poor  provender.  He 

45 


Folly 

had  the  usual  experience  to  look  back  upon — alterna- 
tions of  debt  and  starvation;  but  in  the  course  of  a 
year  or  two  he  had  acquired  the  rudiments  of  the  art 
of  pot-boiling. 

He  smiled  now  to  remember  how,  the  winter's  night 
on  which  he  had  received  his  first  cheque,  he  had  sat 
down  and  written  a  letter  to  his  father,  asking  to  be 
taken  back,  and  concluding:  "Wool-stapling  is  about 
as  pleasant  as  this  and  much  more  honourable,  and 
pays  many  times  over."  For  hours  he  had  sat  huddled 
in  a  blanket,  turning  the  letter  about  in  his  stiff  fingers; 
and  in  the  end  he  had  thrust  it  into  the  candle-flame, 
with  a  "Hang  it!  I'll  hold  on." 

It  was  a  curious  apprenticeship  for  a  poet — sixpenny 
lodging-houses,  the  Salvation  Army  Shelters,  the 
Embankment,  the  Park;  stone-breaking,  harvesting, 
hop-picking  in  summer  (barring  the  time  he  was  at 
sea);  in  winter,  copying  at  the  British  Museum,  with 
one  deadly  season  of  clerkship  in  the  office  of  a  Jewish 
pawn-broker.  And  much  of  the  while  there  went  on, 
mornings  and  nights  and  odd  moments,  the  heart- 
gnawing,  brain-lacerating  business  of  competing  with 
other  starveling  producers  of  rubbish — more  often 
unsuccessfully — in  fifth-rate  penny  papers;  and  off 
and  on  there  was  an  addition  to  the  bookf  ul  of  unpub- 
lished verses. 

In  the  end  he  was  defeated,  came  to  the  blank  wall 
of  destitution;  and,  sucked  of  vitality  and  hope,  fell 
into  the  way  of  a  recruiting  sergeant  and  took  the 

Queen's  shilling. 

46 


Folly 

The  African  pictures  were  less  sharp  to  remember. 
He  saw  himself  again  as  despatch  rider  in  the  Yeo- 
manry, captured  and  shut  up  in  a  Boer  prison  for  getting 
rid  of  the  documents  that  he  carried;  he  saw  Pietje 
Volkers,  who  had  disguised  him  as  a  Dutch  woman  and 
helped  him  through  the  gate,  and  sobbed  on  his  shoul- 
der in  Dutch  and  English,  when  he  was  safely  past 
the  sentries.  He  remembered  with  a  thrill  a  horse 
which  had  scrambled  under  fire  up  the  side  of  a  kopje 
that  ordinary  beasts  refused  to  climb;  and  with  a  kind 
of  wonder,  he  saw  himself  on  the  summit  of  this  same 
hill,  crouching  behind  his  dead  horse — himself  dehu- 
manized, half -blind,  half-dead,  shooting  like  a  machine 
and  ticking  off  one  mark  after  another  as  it  dropped, 
with  no  consciousness  that  he  was  turning  living  targets 
into  carrion.  And  he  had  set  out  to  be  a  poet! 

He  saw  himself  penniless  in  Cape  Town,  joking 
himself  into  a  job  in  the  Public  Works  Department — 
nothing  less  than  a  billet  as  lamp-lighter — and 
favoured  by  virtue  of  his  gentlemanly  and  literary 
propensities  as  evinced  in  the  joke,  with  a  series  of 
unfrequented  back  streets.  And  at  the  last  enteric 
had  done  for  him,  and  brought  him  to  a  sort  of  mission- 
ary home  where  the  mode  of  life  for  a  time  had  pricked 
him  into  a  violent  and  unnatural  atheism.  .  .  . 

At  the  dramatic  moment  came  a  letter  saying  that 
his  father  was  dead  and  had  left  him — perhaps  ironi- 
cally— two  hundred  a  year  for  life;  and  that  the  capital 
of  this  annuity  was  to  be  turned  over  at  his  death  to 


47 


Folly 

one  of  the  many  charitable  institutions  that  swallowed 
the  bulk  of  the  fortune. 

Two  hundred  a  year — well,  it  enabled  him  to  bring 
out  a  thin  volume  of  verses.  Fame  turned  an  eye  upon 
him.  He  produced  a  more  ambitious  collection  and  a 
play.  Fame  smiled,  and  all  doors  were  thrown  open. 
He  found  himself  in  comfortable  chambers,  with 
money  in  his  purse,  and  more  sudden  friendships  than 
he  knew  what  to  do  with.  He  met  Folly  and  began  to 
flatter  himself  that  he  knew  the  meaning  of  life.  She 
had  sent  him  away,  but  his  very  exile  had  not  lacked 
romance  until  the  unlooked-for  pain  was  there,  and 
the  iridescent  bubble  that  he  had  been  blowing  until  it 
was  inconceivably  perfect  and  radiant,  and  he  thought 
that  he  held  it  safe  in  his  hand — broke  and  left  nothing 
but  an  invisible  speck  of  soapy  moisture. 

He  turned  away  from  this  to  remember  the  other 
women  who  had  crossed  his  path. 

"The  Rose  of  Beverley,"  who  furnished  a  title  for 
his  earliest  invention,  came  first,  a  fair  enough  blossom 
of  godly  ministerial  stock.  She  would  have  made  an 
excellent  wife  for  a  Yorkshire  wool-stapler,  perhaps 
even  for  one  who  wrote  verses  and  published  them 
with  discreet  initials  in  the  local  papers,  after  he  had 
retired  from  business.  Pretty  Rose!  He  had  written 
her  the  quarter  of  a  century  of  sonnets,  rhyming  "hair 
of  gold"  with  "love  that  never  grows  old,"  or  was  it 
"  cold  "  ?  She  was  married  long  since  to  a  country  doc- 
tor; and  by  this  time  would  be  as  fat  as  her  mother, 

48 


Folly 

her  rose-leaf  cheeks  now  beefy,  and  her  "hair  of 
gold  "  a  dusty  drab.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  gap  of  years  between  Rose  and  Le*onie. 
Ldonie — Leonie!  She  belonged  to  the  time  of  starva- 
tion and  despair.  He  could  see  her  still — a  slim  black 
figure  beneath  the  light  of  a  street  lamp.  Very  pink 
and  white  under  her  shadowy  hat,  with  the  sparkle  of 
diamonds  in  her  ears  and  of  tears  in  her  eyes — that 
was  Le'onie.  She  began  with  the  old  story  of  a  lost 
address,  new  to  him  then;  and  he  set  out  with  her  to 
find  it,  wondering  how  she  came  to  be  hanging  on  his 
arm,  and  why  he  was  telling  her  his  troubles,  and  si- 
lencing all  doubts  and  country  scruples  with  her  own 
explanation,  that  she  was  French. 

When  they  found  the  house,  after  no  great  difficulty, 
and  he  perceived  that  he  was  a  dupe  and  she  a  decoy, 
he  turned  without  a  word  to  leave  her.  A  moment  the 
misty  darkness  was  between  them;  the  next,  she  was 
clinging  to  him  and  her  face  against  his  was  wet  with 
tears.  She  had  forgotten  her  rouge  as  she  sobbed  out 
her  misery,  pleading  that  he  was  not  like  the  others, 
and  that  she  wanted  no  money,  for  she  must  die  soon, 
they  had  told  her,  but  she  was  lonely  and  afraid,  and  she 
wanted  somebody  who  was  different — different.  .  .  . 

He  never  knew,  nor,  perhaps,  did  she,  where  truth 
ended  and  fiction  began  in  her  story;  but  it  served  its 
purpose — the  devil  best  knew  how — and  bound  them 
in  an  alliance  against  the  terrors  of  the  city. 

For  months  he  believed  that  her  anxiety  and  presci- 
4  49 


Folly 

ence  alone  had  kept  him  from  suicide;  and  at  the  same 
time  she  put  away  her  false  colours,  and,  for  all  her 
wasting,  seemed  to  grow  younger.  She  said  that  she 
was  happy  for  the  first  time  within  her  remembrance. 

With  the  earning  of  a  little  money,  he  offered  to 
marry  her,  but  she  laughed  in  derision:  "You — me? 
What  a  come-down!  Silly,  you  will  be  a  great  man  one 
day,  and  then — poor  Le"onie!  Non,  nonl" 

When  he  pressed  the  matter,  she  would  only  sing: 

"Le  pawure  merle  n'a  perdu  le  bee." 

When  he  appealed  to  her  reason,  she  retorted  in  music, 

"Comment  chantera-t-il  le  merle?" 

until  the  cough  came  upon  her  and  thrust  everything 
else  aside. 

"When  I  am  dead "  she  began  once. 

He  could  not  quieten  her. 

"But,  yes,  I  shall  be  dead — you  do  not  believe? 
You  must  go  to  sea.  And  why?  To  let  the  winds 
blow  away" — she  turned  a  sob  into  a  shrug — "the 
memory  of  me.  It  is  better  you  should  forget.  You 
did  not  yet  know  much,  although  you  have  more  years 
than  I.  But  you  may  remember  me  one  little  bit — not 
more.  Sometimes  I  can  see  you  as  you  will  be.  If  I 
had  been  a  man — but  there,  I  was  poor,  and  I  never  had 
one  chance.  You  can  grow  out  of  the  mud  .  .  .  And 
there  will  be  another  woman,  but  no  matter  for  her  now." 

5° 


Folty 

She  never  would  tell  her  story — said  it  didn't  matter 
— and  presently  died.  And  he,  having  used  his  last 
shilling  to  bury  her,  remembered  her  entreaties,  and 
shipped  before  the  mast.  During  his  first  voyage,  he 
wrote  several  little  poems  about  her,  and  put  them 
away  with  the  others,  and — there  was  no  more  to  be 
said  of  Ldonie. 

The  other  women  all  belonged  to  his  prosperous 
time;  the  memories  of  them  glided  past  the  carriage- 
window  more  quickly  than  the  fields  without.  They 
made  a  quaint  enough  procession :  a  farmer's  daughter 
with  whom  he  had  tossed  hay ;  a  frail  poet  for  whom 
he  had  translated  Heine;  a  pretty  miss  of  ample  means 
and  irreproachable  family,  whom  he  had  thought  of 
marrying  until  he  heard  by  chance  that  she  had  already 
planned  her  trousseau,  and  the  site  and  furnishing  of 
her  house,  while  waiting  for  him  to  come  to  the  point; 
a  baronet's  widow  who  expounded  his  verse  to  her 
friends;  and  Folly.  .  .  . 

He  looked  up,  relieved  to  find  that  the  carriage  was 
nearly  empty.  There  remained  only  one  other  man, 
who  sat  coughing  in  the  opposite  corner. 

"Not  much  better  off  than  I  am,"  thought  Gore. 

His  first  impression  of  Folly  was  so  overlaid  with 
embroideries  of  his  later  fancy  that  it  was  difficult  to 
disentangle.  They  had  met  at  a  small  club  that  he 
occasionally  attended  for  the  side-lights  that  it  threw 
on  human  nature. 

It  was  one  Crandall,  a  newspaper  man,  who  had  first 


Folly 

introduced  him  to  the  Disciples  of  Isis,  with  the  c6m- 
ment  that  the  men,  one  and  all,  "just  escaped  great- 
ness," while  the  women  were  "  elect  souls  who  cultivated 
and  adored  the  talents  neglected  by  a  blind  world." 
He  had  concluded :  "  They're  all  rather  mad,  but  amus- 
ing, you  know." 

So  Gore  had  gone  and  listened  to  a  paper  on  the 
symbolism  of  Tennyson's  "Maud,"  and  had  come 
home  and  laughed  a  year's  laughing  over  the  exposi- 
tion. In  the  heat  of  the  discussion  he  had  been  struck 
by  an  opinion  expressed.  A  spectacled  young  philoso- 
pher had  risen  and  begun  his  speech  with:  "A  day  or 
two  ago,  I  heard  Mrs.  Christie  say  that  half  of  'Maud' 
is  rot  and  the  other  half  is  rubbish.  ..." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Christie?"  asked  Gore,  amused  at  her 
heresy. 

"One  of  the  vice-presidents,"  said  Crandall.  "Not 
here  to-night.  I  met  her  years  ago  in  Paris,  when  I 
was  on  the  World,  and  she  was  a  gawky  art  student, 
living  in  an  attic  in  the  Montparnasse.  I  believe  she 
rowed  her  guardian  no  end  to  get  there;  and  finally 
broke  away  from  him,  and  hired  an  aunt  to  go  about 
with  her.  Her  father  was  a  military  man,  you  know— 
K.  C.  B.  and  all  that.  He  died  out  in  India,  I  believe — 
.  .  .  We  had  some  good  times  together.  Not  so  bad 
at  her  work — a  certain  amount  of  style  and  a 
trick  of  catching  likenesses.  She  might  have  come  on; 
but  she  married  a  comfortable  man,  and  art  flew  out 

the  window.    It's  all  the  same,  I  suppose — no  genius 

52 


Folly 

Wasted.  Incidentally,  she  has  become  charming  and 
leads  her  husband  a  life — and  some  of  the  rest  of  us 
as  well.  Of  course,  she  only  comes  here  for  a  laugh 
occasionally." 

"What  is  she  like?"  Gore  had  felt  impelled  to  ask. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  can't  put  her  into  a  word 
or  two.  Want  to  meet  her — eh  ?  I'll  manage  it.  She's 
not  a  beauty — Lord,  no!  But  she's  good  fun,  in  a 
Lucrezia  Borgia  sort  of  way." 

He  had  been  amused  and  interested,  and  had  endured 
to  be  bored  by  the  Disciples  several  times  before  the 
opportunity  came  of  meeting  her.  He  never  could  re- 
member the  details  clearly,  but  suddenly  he  heard  her 
name;  she  was  looking  at  him;  and  he  had  set  up  a 
little  separate  shrine  for  her  in  his  soul — an  altar  only 
this  morning  stripped  of  its  flowers  and  dismantled. 

He  often  thought  that  it  was  her  voice  that  charmed 
him  first.  Before  he  could  tell  what  she  looked  like, 
her  marvellous  tone-music  was  changing  the  world  for 
him,  with  its  eager:  "I  have  read  every  word  you  have 
written!" 

"Not  you!"  he  had  laughed,  remembering  the  host 
of  unsigned  pot-boilers. 

She  had  guessed  his  thought:  "Then  I  hope  to  find 
the  others  before  I  die. " 

"Heaven  forbid!"  he  had  exclaimed. 

" I  believe" — she  had  paused  so  long  that  he  had  time 
to  study  the  peculiar  brightness  of  her  eyes,  the  whim- 
sical delicate  curves  of  her  lips,  the  halo  from  the  light 

53 


Folly 

above  on  her  fine-spun  hair.  "I  believe  the  world  has 
used  you  badly — so  badly  that  you  don't  care " 

"And  that's  true,"  he  had  admitted,  taking  up  her 
unfinished  sentence. 

"  Can't  we  make  it  good  to  you  in  one  way  or  an- 
other?" She  was  ready  for  flight  to  some  one  await- 
ing her  across  the  room. 

"If  I  may,  be  so  bold" — he  was  beginning;  but  she 
understood  and  anticipated  him. 

"Tuesdays" — and  gave  an  address  in  Sloane  Street. 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  long  moment,  he  dazed 
with  the  rush  of  new  feeling;  she,  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression of  uncertainty,  of  doubt,  of  regret  even,  as  if 
she  had  been  over-hasty. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir.  Do  you  live  in  London?"  a  voice 
broke  in  upon  his  dream. 


54 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE     FELLOW-MAN. 

THE  man  in  the  opposite  corner  had  moved  along  to 
the  seat  facing  him  and  was  leaning  forward  eagerly. 

"I  have  lived  there.    Why?" 

"I'm  going  up  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,"  said 
the  stranger.  "To  a  hospital,  to  be  looked  over.  I 
thought  you  might  know  which  is  the  best." 

"I  see,"  answered  Gore,  and  studied  the  man's  face 
before  he  spoke  further.  It  was  hollow  and  heavily 
shadowed,  but  the  eyes  were  eager  and  hopeful.  If  he 
had  any  doubt  that  it  was  a  case  of  phthisis,  he  would 
have  known  by  the  deep-set  futile  cough  that  the  man 
strove  to  smother  in  his  handkerchief. 

"There's  not  much  the  matter,"  he  declared,  when 
he  could  speak.  "  Only  this  cough,  and  getting  rather 
thin.  But  the  missus  was  that  bent  on  my  coming; 
she  believes  in  being  on  the  safe  side." 

"Just  so,"  said  Gore.  "Well,  there's  Guy's,  and 
Bart's,  and  St.  Thomas's,  and  Charing  Cross,  and  half 
a  dozen  others.  I  don't  know  that  there's  much  to 
choose  among  them.  Or  Brompton.  I  believe  Bromp- 
ton  is  especially  good  for" — he  hesitated. 

55 


Folly 

"For  what,  sir?"  was  the  eager  question. 

"For  a  cough,"  said  Gore  gently. 

"Then  I'd  maybe  best  go  there.  The  missus,  she 
docs  worry  that  much  about  my  cough.  She'd  have 
come  with  me  herself,  only  there's  nobody  to  mind  the 
shop.  I'm  a  greengrocer,  sir,  in  Guildford.  I  believe 
I've  got  one  of  my  cards  here.  As  neat  a  little  place  as 
you  could  fancy;  and  we  have  built  up  the  business 
ourselves  within  the  last  dozen  years.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  have  it  fall  to  pieces;  and  the  kids  are  all  at 
school  yet.  ..." 

It  struck  Gore,  as  he  studied  the  bit  of  pasteboard 
that  summed  up  the  calling  of  "Thomas  Stubbs,  Green- 
grocer," that  here  was  a  case  of  special  pleading.  To 
avoid  answering  it,  he  asked:  "How  did  you  get  your 
cough?" 

"It's  only  a  bit  of  a  cold,  sir — came  on  in  the  winter, 
through  driving  about  in  the  rain,  I  suppose.  I  was  for 
going  to  the  chemist  to  get  some  stuff;  but  my  missus, 
she  do  set  her  foot  down  sometimes,  and  she  said  I  must 
go  to  one  of  the  big  London  hospitals  and  have  it  put 
right  at  once.  There's  no  use  holding  out  against  the 
missus  when  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  a  thing,  so  off 
I  come." 

"They  know  more  about  these  things  in  London," 
said  Gore,  at  a  loss  for  encouragement. 

"So  they  do,  sir;  and  yet  I'm  fearful — there  ain't  no 
sense  in  it,  but  it  runs  in  our  family  to  think  so — that 
once  I  get  into  their  clutches,  it'll  be  none  so  easy  to 

get  out  again." 

56 


Folly 

"Nonsense.    How  many  children  have  you?" 

"Four,  but  we've  buried  eight."  He  was  plainly 
surprised  at  the  question. 

"They  died — young?"  Gore  found  it  difficult  to  get 
to  the  point. 

"Different  ages,  sir.  Didn't  seem  to  have  no  con- 
stitutions to  speak  of.  Sometimes  it  was  a  mere 
cold.  .  .  ." 

"And  your  parents?"  Gore  persisted. 

"  I  don't  remember  my  father.  They  say  he  dropped 
down  one  day  with  a  bad  heart;  but  mother,  she  lived 
on  a  few  years,  always  a-coughing.  ..." 

He  stopped,  moved  by  some  strange  association  of 
ideas,  then  said:  "You'll  be  thinking  we're  a  weakly 
lot  May  I  ask  if  you're  a  doctor  yourself,  sir?" 

"  No,  but  I've  a  friend  who'll  be  able  to  tell  you  what 
to  do.  He's  one  of  the  cleverest  doctors  in  London. 
We'll  ask  him." 

The  greengrocer  looked  worried:  "Begging  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  it  would  come  expensive." 

"Let  that  take  care  of  itself— I'll  see  to  it." 

Stubbs  gazed  through  the  window:  "A  man  must 
make  some  sort  of  fight  for  his  life." 

Gore  started  and  frowned,  then  asked:  "Why?" 

"Why?  Why?  Now,  that's  not  so  easy  to  put  into 
words.  I  suppose  it's  nature.  If  you  was  to  see  a  bull 
coming  for  you  across  a  field,  you'd  either  get  out  of  his 
way  or  face  him  square;  you  wouldn't  stand  still  and 
let  him  mangle  you — but  I  don't  know  why.  If  you  was 


57 


Folly 

dropped  into  the  water,  you'd  strike  out,  even  if  you 
couldn't  swim;  and  if  you  was  took  bad  of  a  sudden, 
you  wouldn't  turn  your  face  to  the  wall  and  give  up. 
When  a  man  don't  know  what  he's  made  for,  or  what 
he's  got  to  do,  it's  his  business  to  hang  on  as  long  as 
he  can — leastways,  to  my  thinking." 

Gore  looked  at  him  meditatively:  "You  want  to  live 
— to  be  an  old  man?" 

He  leaned  forward,  his  clasped  hands  shaking  be- 
tween his  knees,  and  returned  to  his  special  pleading: 
"It's  against  nature  to  die  young.  I  tell  you,  I've  one 
of  the  nicest  little  homes  in  Guildf  ord.  I  can't  be  asked 
to  leave  it;  it  wouldn't  be  fair.  Just  when  I'd  got  it  all 
a-going — and  the  children  getting  on  so  well  at  their 
school— that's  why  I  .don't  want  to  take  no  risks. 
I'm  young  yet,  you  see,  not  forty — no,  sir,  not  forty. 
I've  got  thirty  good  years  to  live  yet — thirty,  sure, 
accordin'  to  the  Bible — and  maybe  more — maybe 
more.  There's  time  enough  to  begin  to  think  about 
going." 

"Thirty  years?"  thought  Gore.  "Thirty  months, 
perhaps,  or  less;  and  he  knows  it  in  his  heart.  Poor 
wretch,  he's  fighting  against  a  dead  certainty." 

"My  boy  Tom,  now,"  continued  the  eager  voice, 
"he's  almost  a  man;  in  ten  years  or  so  he'll  be  able  to 
manage  the  business.  And  George,  he  takes  to  his 
books  like  a  parson ;  I  want  to  lay  by  a  bit  to  help  him 
to  more  schooling.  And  the  little  kid,  he's  hardly 
learned  to  kick  his  heels  about  yet,  but  he  fights  his 

58 


Folly 

mother  like  a  Dutchman.  S'help  me,  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  I  lived  to  see  him  a  general! " 

"He's  talking  at  God  through  me,"  mused  Gore, 
"begging  off — sneaking  out."  Aloud  he  asked: 
"Any  girls?" 

"Lucy — her  mother  worries  now  and  then  because 
she's  not  so  strong  as  some;  but  she'll  come  on  all 
right.  I'm  planning  to  buy  her  an  organ  next  year,  or 
maybe  a  small  piano,  if  I  can  get  one  cheap,  second- 
hand. I'd  like  her  to  be  able  to  do  something  besides 
housework  when  we  come  to  be  thinking  about  a  hus- 
band for  her.  ..." 

He  stopped,  short  of  breath,  and  suddenly  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands;  as  suddenly  raised  his  haggard  eyes 
to  Gore's,  as  if  he  expected  to  surprise  the  truth  there: 
"Would  it  seem  just  to  you,  sir?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  what  is  just  and 
unjust,"  answered  Gore,  "but  it's  clear  to  me  that  you 
want  to  live,  though  you  don't  know  why." 

"It's  good  enough,  this  life,"  said  the  greengrocer, 
with  something  of  dogged  despair  in  his  tone;  "and  for 
all  the  parsons'  talking,  we  don't  know  much  about 
any  other." 

Gore  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  contrition.  A  while 
before,  he  had  said  to  himself  that  these  people  did  no 
thinking;  and  here  was  his  same  problem  of  life  and 
death  cropping  up,  and  a  fellow-man  wrestling  with  it. 
What  could  he  say  to  help  ? 

"It's  no  good  worrying,"  he  got  out  at  length. 
59 


Folly 

"What's  to  be  is  to  be  —  doesn't  that  satisfy  you?" 

The  greengrocer  looked  at  him:  "Put  yourself  in 
my  place,  sir." 

Gore  smiled  faintly:  "That's  soon  done.  What 
then?" 

"What  then?" — the  other  man  grew  fierce.  "How 
would  you  f  eei — that's  what  I  want  to  know ! " 

Gore  pondered:  "Well,  there  are  two  ways  of  taking 
it :  to  be  resigned  and  to  make  a  fight.  The  former  is 
temptingly  easy ;  but  the  latter — I  believe  you  are  right 
— it's  the  good  fight  that  counts;  the  rest  doesn't 
matter." 

"It  matters  a  deal  to  me,"  said  the  other  man. 

"Ah,  but  it  doesn't  lie  in  your  hands,  you  know" — 
he  wondered  that  he  should  be  prescribing  for  his  own 
case  from  his  diagnosis  of  another's. 

He  considered  then  how  it  would  be  to  take  his  own 
advice.  Here  was  Gregory  insisting  that  he  himself 
needed  a  holiday,  urging  that  they  go  away  somewhere 
together,  suggesting  this  and  that  in  the  way  of  treat- 
ment. What  if  a  man  ought  to  fight.  .  .  . 

"You'll  see  the  doctor,"  he  said  aloud.  "You'll 
both  do  what  you  can;  and  whether  you  win  or  not, 
that's  the  end  of  the  matter  for  you." 

"I  must  win,"  muttered  the  man. 

But  Gore  had  a  dim  memory  of  some  old  Norseman 
who  was  thrust  into  a  torture-pit  full  of  serpents,  who 
nevertheless  sang  to  the  very  end,  to  chagrin  his  foes: 

"I  shall  die  laughing." 

60 


Folly 

Defeat  of  the  body  was  certain;  but  who  should 
claim  victory  over  the  soul  ?  He  felt  a  thrill  of  admira- 
tion for  the  little  greengrocer  who  had  roused  his  own 
spirit  of  war.  A  thought  of  the  woman  intruded;  but 
he  thrust  it  away. 

"  Below  hatches ! " — he  smiled  to  himself.  "  None  but 
fighting-men  on  deck." 


61 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SUSPENSE. 

THROUGH  May  and  June  and  July,  Folly  was  wait- 
ing at  Sunlands  for  news  that  never  arrived;  and  early 
in  August  Mabel  Patrick  wrote  that  she  was  coming 
down  for  a  few  days. 

Christie  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  hear  of  her  pro- 
posed visit.  He  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  to 
understand  Folly  he  needed  more  brains  than  he  had 
been  taught  to  believe  he  possessed.  There  seemed  no 
end  to  the  vagaries  that  sometimes  drove  him  to  the 
woods  to  meditate  upon  the  possibilities  of  the  married 
state. 

Early  in  May,  he  thought  to  please  her  by  voluntarily 
suggesting — where  always  before  he  had  required  to  be 
teased — that  it  was  time  they  should  transfer  them- 
selves to  town. 

"I'm  not  going  at  all  this  year,"  she  answered. 
"Let  the  house,  if  you  like." 

Delighted  but  dazed,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  make  sure: 
"But  you  always ?" 

"Not  this  year,"  she  said.    "I  want  to  be  quiet  at 

Sunlands." 

62 


Folly 

He  shook  his  head  over  her:  "You've  lost  your  wits, 
I  take  it." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  retorted  lightly,  "but  I've  acquired 
an  infant,  you  see." 

This  might  be  a  part  of  the  miracle,  he  reasoned;  but 
he  could  offer  nothing  further  in  the  way  of  an  explana- 
tion. He  was  content  to  cover  up  his  secret  delight 
with  an  indifferent,  "As  you  please,"  and  to  write  at 
once  to  his  agent,  lest  she  change  her  mind  about  the 
house. 

But  if  he  hoped  for  peace,  he  found  it  only  in  his 
woods  and  streams.  In  the  house  he  was  haunted  by 
a  sense  of  vague  unrest,  reflected  from  her  restlessness, 
to  which  he  had  no  clue. 

He  had  his  own  method  of  dealing  with  her  unreason- 
able irritability,  and  occasionally  he  scored,  as  for 
instance : 

"Andrew,  what  makes  you  so  freckled?"  she  asked 
one  day  at  breakfast. 

"The  sun,  I  suppose,"  he  answered  absently,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  day's  quotations. 

"Can't  you  do  anything  about  it?"  she  continued 
impatiently. 

"Do?"  He  roused  himself  a  moment.  "Do  about 
it?  What?  Oh,  the  sun — freckles,  I  mean.  Cer- 
tainly, stay  in  the  house,  and  I  won't!"  He  retired 
within  the  shell  of  his  newspaper. 

Another  time:   "You're  the  woodenest-looking  man 

I  know!" 

63 


Folly 

"Do  you  want  to  paint  my  portrait?  I'll  get  up  an 
expression.  But  I  can't  look  like  Gore.  Are  you 
cold?" 

She  had  shivered  and  moved  away. 

He  had  not  the  faintest  conception  how  his  good- 
natured  indifference  teased  her  nerves  until  she  wished 
that  he  would  fall  into  a  rage  and  break  furniture.  He 
had  no  idea  how  she  hated  the  shabby  comfortable 
clothes  that  he  wore — open-air  clothes  redolent  of 
the  woods,  that  suited  his  figure  as  the  bark  suits 
a  tree.  Nor  did  he  dream  of  the  torture  to  her 
of  the  three  meals  a  day  with  him — hours  when  she 
was  goaded  into  saying  cruel  things,  the  more  so 
when  the  grim  set  of  his  lips  told  that  she  had  reached 
the  quick. 

He  gathered  chiefly  that  she  had  always  an  inordinate 
desire  for  the  post,  and  that  she  was  perpetually  disap- 
pointed of  something  that  she  expected,  inasmuch  as 
she  was  most  unbearable  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  the 
letters. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  observing  this  pecu- 
liarity, he  had  an  inspiration  that  broke  forth  into  a 
quite  unpremeditated  remark: 

"Is  it  that  little  fool  man  that's  troubling  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  straight.  "You  mean  Haldane 
Gore?  I  haven't  seen  him  since  April" — she  caught 
back  the  date — "nor  heard  from  him  for — I  forget  how 
long.  We  don't  write." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  so  hastily  that  it  fell  over, 
64 


Folly 

and  went  to  stand  by  the  window,  pursuing  his  thought 
aloud:  "If  I  thought  you  wanted  him " 

He  turned  to  study  her,  but  her  face  was  mocking: 
" Well ? "  she  asked.  "What  then ? " 

"If  I  thought  you  did — you  should  have  him  and  be 
— damned!"  he  concluded,  under  his  breath. 

She  laughed :  "  You  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't 
be  damned.  God  might  be  merciful,  as  they  say  He 
is  just." 

"It's  no  good  asking  you,"  he  persisted. 

"Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world.  Here's  a  letter  from 
Mab.  She's  coming  down  in  a  day  or  two — a  visit  of 
ceremony  to  the  baby,  she  says." 

Christie  selected  and  lighted  a  pipe,  with  the  look  of 
one  who  is  considering  deeply. 

Presently  he  said:  "And  I've  an  invitation  here 
from  Flood.  He's  going  to  cruise  for  a  fortnight 
about  the  Balearic  Islands.  Should  you  mind  if  I 
join  him?" 

He  was  quick  enough  to  catch  her  look  of  relief. 
Indeed,  he  had  prepared  the  trap  and  she  had  walked 
into  it.  She  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  him,  then,  he  saw. 
But  at  least — it  was  some  comfort — she  could  scarcely 
be  in  better  hands  than  Mrs.  Patrick's. 

"We  shall  try  to  do  without  you,"  said  Folly,  with  an 
assumption  of  regret.  "Mab  will  be  disappointed; 
but  by  this  time  she's  used  to  your  sudden  flights.  We 
shall  be  dull,  of  course." 

He  looked  at  her  a  bit  wistfully :  "It  isn't  exactly  dul- 
5  65 


Folly 

ness  I  should  complain  of.  But  it  seems  somehow  as 
if  the  skies  had  fallen  these  last  few  months." 

"  So  they  have,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  waited  a  while;  then:  "  Can't  you  tell  a  fellow?" 

It  was  her  turn  to  pause.  "Not  easily,"  she  said  at 
length.  "I  will,  if  you  insist." 

He  waved  away  the  idea:  "It  must  come  of  your 
own  accord.  But  tell  Mab  if  you  can." 

"I  will  try,"  she  said,  meeting  his  eyes  honestly. 

So  Christie  went  away  yachting,  without  further 
questions;  and  soon  after,  Mrs.  Patrick  came  down  to 
inspect  and  pass  judgment  on  the  youthful  heir.  This 
occupied  her  quite  a  day;  and  it  was  not  until  the  sec- 
ond luncheon  that  she  gave  a  glance  to  the  mother : 

"You're  looking  well,  Folly  mine." 

"Thanks.    It's  gratifying,"  was  the  dry  answer. 

"But  aren't  you  well?" 

"Blooming." 

"Then  what ?" 

"I  am  gaining  in  weight,  I  believe.  I  shall  be  a  fat 
old  lady,  if  I  live  long  enough.  But  I  don't  consider  the 
topic  edifying." 

"Edifying — fancy!"  lisped  Mabel.  "Do  you  want 
to  be  edified  ?  I  shall  not  make  talk  any  more.  I  try 
to  be  polite  about  your  two  Dandies  and  you  answer 
me  in  monosyllables;  I  mention  your  health  and  you 
cut  me  short " 

"Mab,  do  you  know  a  Mr.  Gregory?"  interrupted 

Folly  brusquely. 

66 


Folly 

Mrs.  Patrick  looked  uncomfortable:  "Know  him? 
Yes.  Why?" 

"  What  is  he  like?" 

"Tall,  thin, — ancient  Egyptian  eyes  and  nose  and 
beard " 

"  Stuff!    I  don't  mean  his  looks." 

"Soft  of  speech  and — and  sharp  of  knife,"  said 
Mabel,  with  a  nervous  little  laugh. 

"Good  at  his  work,  then?" 

"  Rather.  But  he  wastes  a  lot  of  time  over  pathology 
— they  say.  It's  a  pity." 

"  Why  ?  "    Folly  was  upon  her. 

"Because  he'd  get  on  faster  if  he  stuck  to  the  one 
thing.  But,  anyway,  he's  assistant  surgeon  at  one  of  the 
big  hospitals.  Guy's  ?  No,  'pon  my  word,  I  forget." 

"Is  he  quite  the  best  man  you  know?"  Folly  was 
very  much  in  earnest. 

Mabel  blushed:  "I  protest!  This  catechism  is  grow- 
ing lop-sided.  It's  my  turn  now.  What  do  you  want 
to  know  for  ?  " 

"Don't  bother!"  Folly  thrust  this  aside.  "I  have 
a  good  reason." 

"Bless  the  girl!"  Mabel  was  playing  rather  ner- 
vously with  her  glass.  "I've  heard  people  say" — her 
colour  came  and  went — "that  he's  very  good  indeed 
for  some  things." 

"What  things?" 

"Oh,  heaven  knows!    I'm  not  going  to  answer  any 

more  foolish  questions." 

67 


Folly 

She  made  a  hasty  flight  for  the  door  but  was  captured 
and  pinioned  in  Folly's  strong  arms,  while  Folly's 
voice  said  imperatively:  "Tell  me." 

"He's  been  very  successful  with  some  delicate  opera- 
tions," she  confessed,  toying  with  Folly's  chain. 
"There  was  an  account  of  one  in  the  Lancet.  I  didn't 
understand  it  very  well;  but  it  had  something  to  do 
with  the  throat " 

"Throat?"  Folly  let  her  escape  and  made  no 
attempt  to  follow. 

But  a  few  moments  later,  as  Mrs.  Patrick  sat  in  her 
room  over  a  letter  that  made  no  headway — sat  by  a 
window  with  a  puzzled  worried  look  in  her  eyes — she 
was  not  astonished  to  find  her  hostess  standing  over 
her. 

"  I  want  his  address,  Mab." 

"Queen  Anne  Street,"  said  Mabel.  "Wait  a  min- 
ute. I'll  find  you  the  number.  But  he's  abroad  now. 
Do  you  want  to  consult  him  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Folly,  and  for  a  second  it  seemed  as  if 
she  might  speak.  Then  she  drew  on  the  mask:  "For 
adiposity.  I  wish  to  be  a  thin  old  woman." 

Mrs.  Patrick  put  out  a  hand  and  pulled  Folly  down 
to  her  knees  on  the  floor:  "There's  no  necessity,  if  you 
go  on  this  way.  I  knew  you  were  not  all  right,  of 
course,  but  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me." 

"Tell  you  what?"  said  Folly  obstinately.  "I'm 
well  enough." 

"Perhaps.    But  your  mind — or  spirit,  shall  we  say? 
68 


Folly 

—is  being  torn  to  rags.  Come  up  to  Whitby  with  me. 
Oh,  don't  jerk  away  like  that.  Don't  breathe,  if  I  tell 
you  a  secret.  I'm  writing  a  novel;  and  it's  to  be  out  in 
the  spring  if  I  have  to  pay  for  it  myself.  Come  along 
and  help  me,  and  you  may  forget  your  troubles." 

"It's  a  pity  you've  a  good  income,  Mab,"  was  the 
unexpected  reply. 

" Cross  my  heart!  Now  all  my  investments  will  blow 
up,  or  whatever  it  is  investments  do  when  you  don't  get 
any  money.  I  don't  want  to  be  poor." 

"No,  but  you  might  have  a  chance  of  doing  some- 
thing, if  you  were.  You've  got  ability  enough ;  but  the 
way  is  made  too  easy  for  you.  You  just  play  at  work." 

"And  a  lucky  thing,  too,  in  this  stupid  old  world, 
that  some  people  do  play.  We're  far  too  solemn. 
Don't  preach  at  me.  You  look  like  a  tragedy  queen; 
but  I'm  too  fat  and  rosy  to  belong  to  the  order  of  Poor 
Things,  and  I  won't.  If  my  dear  husband  hadn't  left 
me  enough  to  live  on,  I  might  have  done  some  lively 
worrying  by  this  time;  but — thank  heaven,  he  did,  so 
I  needn't  bother.  I'm  not  like  you:  I  don't  wear  my- 
self away  to  rags  over  an  invisible  and  intangible  trou- 
ble. Never  mind,  I'll  write  a  good  book  when  you've 
painted  a  good  picture." 

"I've  done  that,"  answered  Folly,  with  sombre  eyes; 
and  put  aside  Mabel's  eager  questions  with,  "No,  it 
isn't  on  exhibition.  I  must  go  and  write  to  Mr. 
Gregory." 

"  But  I  told  you  he  was  away.    Oh,  yes,  letters  will  be 
69 


Folly 

forwarded,  of  course,  if  that  would  do  you  any  good." 

After  a  silence,  Mabel  looked  out  across  the  fir- wood, 
saying  softly:  "We're  like  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  you 
and  I.  We  love  each  other;  but  there's  a  great  wall 
between  us." 

Folly  said  nothing. 

" Can't  we  break  it  down?" 

After  a  pause:  " I  don't  see  how." 

"Well" — Mabel  made  a  brave  pretence  at  cheer- 
fulness— "we  shall  have  to  squint  through  the  hole, 
then.  But — should  you  mind  very  much  if  I  tell  you 
the  name  of  that  wall?  It's  Haldane  Gore." 

At  this,  Folly's  head  dropped  lower,  until  her  face 
was  hidden  in  Mabel's  lap.  There  was  a  silence  until 
Mrs.  Patrick  said,  with  a  caressing  hand  on  the  soft 
light  hair,  "You  want  to  confess  and  can't,  it  seems. 
I  suppose  I  must  do  it  for  you.  Of  course,  I  under- 
stood from  the  very  first  that  you  were — oh,  well,  not 
in  love  with  him — we'll  admit  that  there's  no  word  for 
it  in  English.  But,  as  I  have  tried  vainly  to  hint  to 
you  several  times,  I  don't  think  you  knew — quite — 
how  serious  a  matter  it  was  for  him.  I  gather  now  that 
there  have  been  complications,  and  that  you've  found 
out,  and  that  you're  having  a  bad  attack  of  con- 
science  " 

"Not  conscience,"  whispered  Folly.  "If  it  were 
only  that " 

"Only!"  gasped  Mabel.    "What's  the  world  coming 

to?   Well,  then,  what?" 

70 


Folly 

Folly  lifted  a  flushed  face:  "I'd  like  to  tell  you,  Mab, 
but  I  can't;  the  words  stick.  Wait  till  I've  seen  Mr. 
Gregory.  When  do  you  think  he  will  be  back?" 

"I'm  not  his  keeper,  dear — really;  I  don't  know. 
And  I  don't  see  what  he  has  to  do  with  your  case." 

But  Folly  seemed  not  to  have  heard  her:  "I've 
waited  three  months  and  more;  I  can't  stand  it  much 
longer.  I'd  go  to-morrow  and — and  find  somebody 
else;  but,  honestly,  I'm  afraid — afraid  to  leave  Dandie 
for  fear  I  should  never.  ..." 

"The  baby?"  Mabel  scoffed.  "You  are  a  devoted 
mother!" 

"No,  I  meant  my  husband,"  answered  Folly  slowly. 

"Truly,  you've  lost  your  senses,"  laughed  Mabel. 
"He  has  no  scruples  about  leaving  you." 

"He  knew  I  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him,"  said  Folly 
quietly.  "  He  got  on  my  nerves.  But  I'm  afraid — if  I 
once  got  away — there's  no  telling  what — what  I  might 
do.  ...  I  might  not  come  back.  ..." 

"Why,  dear  child,  dear  child,  you're  forgetting  all 
about  the  baby." 

"Oh,  no!"  The  tawny  head  went  down  again  to  be 
stroked  by  Mabel's  dimpled  comforting  hands.  "  I'm 
hanging  on  to  him  for  dear  life ! " 

Mrs.  Patrick  thought  a  little  while  before  she  ob- 
served: "You're  making  a  great  mystery  of  something; 
and  if  you  can't  tell  me,  there's  an  end  of  it.  But  you 

mustn't  deny  that  you're  fond  of  little  Dandie "  she 

waited. 


Folly 

"He's  all  right,"  Folly  granted. 

"And  he  ought  to  keep  you  straight.  He's  a  sensible 
laddie — admires  his  mother  already — howls  for  her, 
even  in  the  arms  of  his  nurse.  ..." 

"He'll  outgrow  all  that,"  said  Folly.  "He  may  live 
to  curse  me  for  bringing  him  into  this  cheerful  world, 
as  I  have  cursed  my " 

"  Oh,  hush,"  said  Mabel.    "  Let  the  dead  rest." 

"  I  never  loved  them.  How  could  I  ?  I  never  knew 
them.  I  was  a  mere  babe  when  they  sent  me  away  to 
school,  and  went  of!  to  India  and  died  of  cholera.  I  call 
it  shirking  parental  duties!" 

"Well,  don't  be  so  fierce,"  pleaded  Mabel.  "I  don't 
suppose  they  enjoyed  dying  of  cholera." 

"I  could  have  forgiven  them  if  they  had  taken  me 
along,  because  then  I  might  have  died  of  it,  too,  years 
ago.  But  it's  hard  lines  that  just  because  they  wanted 
to  marry  I  should  have  to  pay  the  penalty  for  such  a 
long  time.  ..." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mabel.  "I 
don't  suppose  you  could  help  being;  I  daresay  you 
wanted  to  be.  And  if  you  hadn't  been  their  child,  you 
would  have  been  other  people's.  But  what  is  the 
good  speculating  about  such  things?  If  you  want  me 
to  declare  that  there's  a  curse  upon  you,  wording  itself 
out  to  a  bitter  Nemesis,  I'll  do  so  at  once,  and  then 
we'll  be  all  comfy  again." 

Her  purring  voice  made  Folly  smile.    She  seized  the 

plump  hands  as  if  she  found  strength  or  comfort  in 

72 


Folly 

them,  and  said  more  quietly:  "You  were  always  a 
mainstay,  Mab — through  all  those  lonely  school-days. 
Be  good  to  me  now.  I  can  tell  you  only  this:  if  you 
knew  that  some  horrible  thing  was  coming  down  upon 
you — swiftly,  surely,  inevitably — and  you  could  not  run 
away,  or  stop  it,  or  lift  a  finger  against  it,  or  do  any- 
thing but  wait  and  count  off  the  days  before  you  knew 
it  must  happen.  ..." 

"But  you  wouldn't,  you  know,"  said  Mab  comfort- 
ably. "Things  don't  come  about  that  way." 

"Yes." 

"Rubbish!  Nonsense!  You  exaggerate.  It  won't 
be  as  bad  as  you  say ;  or  even  suppose  it  is,  you'll  have 
the  strength  to  bear  it.  Why,  you  suffer  fifty  times  over 
in  anticipation.  Have  a  little  faith  and  wait.  You 
never  know  what  turn " 

"  Faith  in  what  ?  "  said  Folly  bitterly.    "  Miracles  ?  " 

"Faith  in"— Mabel  hesitated— "faith  in  the  'ulti- 
mate decency  of  things.' " 

Folly  got  to  her  feet:  "I  haven't  risen  to  that  creed 
yet.  But  I'm  only  boring  you.  Shall  we  go  for  a  drive, 
or — or  what?" 

Mabel  held  fast  to  her  hands  so  that  she  could  not 
get  away. 

"I  had  such  a  vivid  memory  of  you  just  now — at  the 
old  studio — Lamoreau's — remember?  I  was  very  late 
and  the  rest  of  you  had  been  at  work  a  long  while. 
You  had  a  model  posed  as  a  Greek  athlete,  and  he  had 
fainted.  ..." 

73 


Folly 

<fHe  had  been  starving  for  a  week.    I  remember." 

" — and  fell  and  cut  his  head  on  the  edge  of  the  dais. 
It  happened  just  before  I  came  in ;  and  what  did  I  find  ? 
All  the  other  girls  huddled  and  chattering  and  crying; 
and  you  alone  on  the  platform,  with  his  head  in  your 
lap.  I  can  see  you  this  minute,  with  your  frowsy  hair 
— it  was  so  then,  dear — and  a  charcoal  smudge  on  your 
nose,  and  the  blood  dripping  between  your  fingers  as 
you  held  the  cut  together." 

"  It  was  nothing,"  said  Folly.  "You  had  the  sense  to 
send  for  Lamoreau  and  a  doctor.  What's  your  moral  ?  " 

"Only  that  you've  got  a  man's  courage,  girl;  and  if 
you're  in  trouble,  you'll  fight  it  through  like  a  man. 
There  now!  Don't  say  Mab  has  no  faith  in  you." 

"I'll  wait,"  said  Folly.  "I'll  hang  on  to  the  last 
notch — if  only  for  the  baby's  sake.  But  when  I  reach 
the  breaking-point " 

"You  won't  break,"  said  Mabel.  "Trust  me.  And 
when  I  can  help " 

"I  suppose,"  said  Folly,  with  a  curious  smile,  "that 
God  could  help;  but — somehow  I've  given  over 
praying.  ..." 


74 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  DEVIL  PLAYS  DUMMY. 

ONE  morning  in  October,  when  blue  haze  was  fold- 
ing in  hills  and  sea,  Mrs.  Christie  the  elder  was  sitting 
alone  in  her  drawing-room,  tinkling  over  minuets 
by  Haydn  and  Mozart,  and  now  and  then  for- 
getting them  in  memories  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury old,  as  her  sweet  blue  eyes  gazed  across  the  dim 
waters  of  the  bay.  And  so  dreaming  and  fingering, 
she  was  startled  out  of  her  serenity  by  the  abrupt  en- 
trance of  her  daughter-in-law,  smart  and  smiling  gaily, 
with  feverish  cheeks  and  restless  eyes. 

"Good-morning,  materkin,"  she  called  from  the 
door.  "  The  bad  penny  again." 

The  little  old  lady,  pluming  herself  after  the  swift 
and  reckless  embrace,  and  adjusting  her  glasses  over 
eyes  that  saw  far  more  than  they  appeared  to  see, 
asked  shrewdly:  "Well,  Folly,  well?  How  are  you? 
You  look  your  name  to-day." 

Thereupon  the  visitor  flung  a  feather-adorned 
Gainsborough  hat  on  the  table,  whence  it  dropped  to 
the  fender  without  attracting  her  attention,  and  drew 
a  footstool  up  to  the  old  lady's  knee,  saying  cheerfully; 

75 


Folly 

"Do  you  want  to  keep  me  out  of  the  clutches  of  the 
devil,  materkin?  You're  the  one  person  in  the  world 
who  might  do  it." 

"Blue  devils?"  was  the  dry  response.  "Take  a 
tonic." 

Thereupon  the  old  lady  settled  the  folds  of  her  black 
satin  gown,  arranged  her  fichu,  played  with  her  rings 
and  even  turned  her  delicate  white-rose  face  seaward 
again,  as  she  awaited  a  storm  of  protest,  or  ridicule,  or 
temper.  Folly  hated  the  bare  suggestion  of  illness. 
But  nothing  came;  there  was  an  abject  silence  until  the 
elder  woman  looked  back  with  a  brisk:  "What's  up? 
I  smell  feathers  singeing." 

"I  am,"  said  Folly  calmly,  as  she  rescued  her  hat, 
"altogether — unless  you  find  a  way  out." 

"Materkin"  dimpled  all  about  her  sweet  mouth. 
"Symptoms?"  she  asked. 

"I've  no  symptoms."  Folly  was  still  quiet.  "You 
don't  believe  me  ?  " 

"I  always  believe  you.  I'm  sure  it's  very  bad. 
How  are  my  two  boys  ?  " 

"Well." 

"Andrew  didn't  come  with  you?" 

"No;  he  went  to  a  meeting  of  the  Archaeological 
Society.  They've  dug  up  some  scraps  of  a  Roman  villa 
near  the  mouth  of  the  Leigh." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  the  baby  to  visit  his  grand- 
mother?" 

"Honestly,  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  could  do  without 
76 


Folly 

him,  or  he  without  me.  And  then  I  have  some  business 
to  see  to.  A  baby  is  so  fearfully  dependent  on  one, 
mater." 

"  You  mean,  one  is  so  fearfully  dependent  on  a  baby." 

"I  thought  when  they  were  once  weaned" — began 
the  daughter-in-law. 

"That  shows  how  little  you  know  about  it. 
There 's  all  the  great  business  of  teething ;  and  be- 
fore that's  very  far  on,  you  have  to  begin  to  think  about 
talking  and  walking.  And  then,  before  you  can  draw 
a  long  breath,  you  find  yourself  in  for  measles,  whoop- 
ing-cough, chicken-pox,  croup  ...  I  had  no  end  of 
trouble  with  my  Andrew.  Croup,  you  know.  Night 
after  night,  I  thought  he  would  never  see  the  morning. 
But  we're  a  tough  lot,  we  Christies — tougher  than  your 
side  of  the  family,  my  dear.  We  needn't  worry  about 
mumps  and  scarlatina  yet  a  while.  When  they  do 
come,  you  won't  have  any  time  to  be  tired  of  life." 

This  was  a  shrewd  hit.  Folly  said:  "There  are 
other  things  in  the  world  besides  babies." 

"Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  deny  it!"  returned 
the  old  lady.  "But  then,  you  see,  a  first  baby  is 
such  a  distraction  and  an  amusement  and  a  game 
altogether;  I  should  think  he  might  occupy  you  for 
a  while.  I  never  had  but  the  one,"  she  added 
regretfully,  then  laughed — "so  I  gave  him  a  lot  of  bring- 
ing up." 

"Tell  me  how  you  manage  it,  mater,"  said  Folly, 
having  scarcely  heard  this.  "I  know  you  do  care  for 

77 


Folly 

all  the  little  daily  things  about  you.     That's  why  I 
came  to  you.    I  want  to  learn.  ..." 

"  Do  you  need  to  learn  to  be  interested  in  your  own 
child  ?  Come,  now,"  said  the  old  lady.  "It's  different 
with  me.  I've  only  the  little  things  left.  What  else 
should  I  do  with  them?  Swear  at  them?" 

"And  you  never  get  tired  living?" 

"Why  should  I?  I'm  too  old  for  all  that  nonsense* 
I'm  in  for  a  good  time  now." 

"If  I  could  ever  get  to  that " 

"In  fifty  years?"  was  suggested. 

"But  when  one  is  young,  it's  all  trouble  and 
temptation " 

"You  children  always  want  to  eat  your  cake  and 
have  it.  What's  wrong  now?" 

Folly  shook  her  head  to  indicate  the  difficulty  of 
explaining. 

"Tell  Andrew  then." 

Folly  laughed  at  the  idea.  "But,  mater,  can  you 
think  what  it  would  be  like  to  have  the  thumb-screw 
on  for  months  ?  " 

"No,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  can.  It's  more 
likely  that  you've  stuck  your  thumb  into  a  crack, 
and  wonder  now  why  the  door  pinches  it.  I  hate  talk- 
ing in  the  dark.  Let's  drop  the  matter  till  after  lunch- 
eon, and  then  you'll  tell  me  what's  on  your  mind.  I'll 
be  seeing  about  your  room  now."  The  old  lady 
swished  away,  pleased  with  the  fancy  that  she  still  did 
her  own  housekeeping. 

78 


Folly 

Folly  stood  idly  by  the  desk,  looking  across  the  gar- 
den to  the  sea: 

"  I  wonder  what  she  would  say  if  I  told  her  the  whole 
story?  If  it  came  to  a  question  of  my  going — but  it 
won't,  of  course.  .  .  .  Still,  I  should  have  to  have 
money,  or  I  should  be  no  good — only  a  burden. 
...  I  shall  lose  my  mind  if  I  keep  on  like  this  much 
longer.  .  .  .  ' 

She  turned  away  from  the  desk,  stooping  to  pick  up 
some  papers  that  her  sleeve  had  brushed  to  the  floor, 
and  found  that  they  were  three  ten-pound  notes.  Care- 
less little  mater!  was  her  thought.  She  must  lose  no 
end  of  money,  leaving  it  tucked  away  in  unlocked 
drawers,  and  strewn  about  over  her  desk.  It  might  be 
worth  while  to  teach  her  a  lesson. 

But  indeed  her  reasoning  process  was  slight  and 
imperfect.  The  movement  was  almost  instinctive 
wherewith  she  thrust  the  notes  into  her  glove,  as  she 
went  upstairs. 

When  she  was  alone  in  her  room,  she  drew  them 
forth  and  looked  at  them  in  a  kind  of  surprise,  but  with 
scorching  cheeks.  Then  she  tossed  them  carelessly  on 
the  sofa,  with  her  wraps,  and  went  to  the  glass  to  ar- 
range her  hair. 

"Thief,"  she  murmured.  "You  a  thief?  It's  rather 
a  joke.  Almost  worth  keeping  up  for  a  while.  I  be- 
lieve I  could  do  it,  if  there  were  any  need  of  money — 
if  it  would  be  of  use — but  what's  the  good?" 

A  tap  at  the  door  sent  her  to  the  sofa,  all  in  a  flutter; 
79 


Folly 

and  she  answered  unsteadily,  the  notes  burning  in  her 
pocket. 

"No,  thank  you,  Susan,  I  have  everything,"  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Christie's  companion,  who  had  come  in  to 
look  after  her  comfort.  Her  face  went  hot  and  cold, 
and  she  kept  glancing  at  the  sofa,  as  if  she  feared  that 
by  some  magic  the  notes  had  got  back  again. 

Throughout  luncheon  she  waited  for  the  loss  to  be 
mentioned;  but  nothing  was  said.  Thirty  pounds — 
not  much,  in  all  conscience ;  yet  if  she  had  intended  to 
go.  ...  it  was  a  useful  sum.  But  the  immediate 
problem  was  how  to  return  it  gracefully  and  dramati- 
cally. Her  mother-in-law  was  serene,  full  of  mischief, 
and  disposed  to  tease,  and  gave  her  no  chance  whatever. 

After  luncheon,  when  Mrs.  Christie  was  settled  for 
her  afternoon  nap,  Folly  found  the  cigarettes  that  were 
always  kept  for  her  in  a  certain  drawer  of  a  certain 
cupboard  in  the  library;  and  smoked  fitfully,  as  she 
watched  the  mist  drizzling  into  a  slow  rain  upon  the 
garden  trees  and  shrubs. 

"  Myrtle — cedar — rhododendron ;  rhododendron — 
cedar — myrtle"  she  was  repeating  to  herself,  without 
any  sense  or  profit  whatever,  when  she  caught  sight  of 
Susan  hovering  in  a  troubled  manner  over  the  desk. 

"Lost  something?"  she  was  impelled  to  ask. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Susan.  "Mrs. 
Christie  sent  me  to — but  they  don't  seem  to  be  here. 
Later  on,  I  daresay  she'll  remember  exactly  where 

she  put  them." 

80 


Folly 

"If  I  went  up  to  town  to-morrow,"  thought  Folly, 
"I  could  see  Mab  and  ask  her  whether  Mr.  Gregory 
has  come  home.  If  not,  another  doctor  ...  I  could 
find  out  where  Haldane  is  now.  .  .  .  But  when  he  has 
not  sent  me  a  word?"  Ah,  that  was  the  crux!  To  go 
when  one  might  be  superfluous — unwelcome?  And 
yet  not  to  go  when  she  had  the  money,  and  he  might  be 
dying  for  lack  of  means  to  do  everything  possible.  .  .  . 
"I  can't  go,"  she  said,  and  threw  her  cigarette  into  the 
fire;  but  the  words  that  reechoed  in  her  mind  were: 
"I  can't  stay."  Later:  "I  couldn't  make  any  of  them 
understand."  And  again:  "I  ought  to  take  every 
penny  that  I  could  get."  And  still  again:  "If  I  were 
a  man,  I  should  say,  'Morals  be  damned!'"  Further: 
"There'd  be  no  harm  in  asking  Mab;  she  might  know 
something."  And  as  she  rose  to  go  in  to  tea :  "It's  high 
time  to  have  done  with  this  nonsense  and  return  the 
notes." 

At  tea  the  talk  was  of  whist.  Folly  was  reluctant; 
but  Mrs.  Christie  was  bent  on  managing  it.  "Susan 
and  I  will  play  together,  and  you  shall  be  Dummy's 
partner.  That  will  do  very  well, — your  brain  against 
the  two  of  us.  She'll  be  back  from  the  post  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  Folly  might  have  intro- 
duced the  matter  of  the  bank-notes;  but  she  chose  to 
say:  "I  suppose  when  one's  money  is  tied  up  like 
mine,  it's  impossible  to  get  at  it." 

"When  it's  a  lawyer's  knot,  I  judge  so,  my  dear." 
6  81 


Folly 

"You  see,  little  Dandle  will  have  heaps;  and  mine 
is  such  a  pittance.  I  sometimes  fancy  I'd  like  to  spend 
it." 

"You  do  pretty  well  with  the  income,  I  imagine," 
chuckled  the  old  lady. 

"  Oh,  but  one  can't  be  very  extravagant  on  five  hun- 
dred a  year.  If  I  wanted  to  do  something  big,  like 
buying  an  air-ship,  or  an  opera  all  to  myself,  or — or  a 
laboratory,  I  couldn't  afford  it,  you  see." 

"But  why  should  you  want  a  laboratory?"  asked 
Mrs.  Christie.  "And  if  you  do,  you  can  always  beg 
from  Andrew." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  can't  do  in  this  case,"  in- 
sisted Folly;  but  thereupon  Susan  returned,  and  Mrs. 
Christie  was  all  for  the  game. 

However,  Susan  first  asked  for  a  conference  about 
some  household  matter;  and  Folly  moved  about  from 
picture  to  picture,  catching  a  word  here  and  there, 
through  the  murmur  of  their  voices.  Once  or  twice  she 
turned  and  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  no  sound 
came. 

When  they  were  settling  to  the  game,  she  did  indeed 
summon  resolution  to  ask,  "Something  gone  wrong?" 

But  the  old  lady  gave  her  no  opportunity:  "Nothing 
to  trouble  you  about,  my  dear;  I  daresay  it  will  right 
itself  in  the  morning." 

Folly  looked  at  her  hard,  then  took  up  the  cards  and 
shuffled  them.  All  at  once,  as  she  began  to  deal  them 
out,  it  shot  through  her  mind  that  she  might  shift  the 


Polly 

responsibility  to  the  shoulders  of  chance  or  fate.  All 
she  had  to  do  was  to  play  fair;  and  the  cards  should  tell 
her  whether  she  must  walk  along  the  broad  road  of 
wifehood  and  motherhood,  or  seek  him  that  she  loved 
among  the  bypaths  that  the  world  eschewed.  Dummy 
should  decide  the  question  once  for  all — she  perceived 
the  way.  A  game  within  a  game,  that  should  be  it. 
Let  the  mater  win  and  Susan,  it  was  of  no  consequence ; 
but  she  should  play  against  Dummy,  and  all  that  he 
stood  for,  and  of  the  two  of  them,  who  took  most  tricks 
should  score  as  winner.  She  would  stake  all  on  this 
throw  and  have  done  with  the  torture  of  suspense;  and 
she  would  play  fair  .  .  .  fair.  .  .  . 

"What  ai»e  you  smiling  about,  child?"  asked  Mrs. 
Christie. 

"My  own  nonsense,  dear.  Suppose — suppose 
Dummy  were  the  devil  himself?" 

"Why,  then,  you'd  get  burnt  ringers,"  was  the  retort. 

"I  believe  I  could  play  with  him,"  she  insisted. 

"Well,  well,  we  are  waiting,"  grumbled  the  old  lady. 

Folly  was  as  conscious  of  a  definite  plunge  as  if  she 
had  dived  into  cold  water.  Dummy  should  be  the 
devil,  if  he  it  was  that  tempted  her  to  leave  all  that  she 
had,  for  love's  sake;  and  she  would  play  against  him 
for  husband  and  child.  ...  It  was  an  insane  thing  to 
do,  she  said  to  herself ;  and  yet  she  swore  that  she  would 
hold  to  the  innings. 

"Now  we  shall  see  what  you  make  of  the  game,  with 
all  your  cleverness,"  said  Mrs.  Christie  presently. 

83 


Folly 

"So  we  shall" —  she  was  in  grim  earnest. 

A  little  later,  the  old  lady  asked:  "Why  do  you  keep 
all  your  tricks  apart  from  Dummy's?" 

"It's  a  whim — a  fancy,"  she  answered  lightly;  but 
followed  every  step  of  the  game  with  a  painful  caution, 
and  fever  hi  her  cheeks  and  eyes. 

"  Dummy  has  all  the  cards,"  she  said  hoarsely  after  a 
time.  "Look:  ace,  king,  knave,  ten — what  show  has 
the  poor  queen  ?  It's  Dummy  who's  winning  this  game, 
mater.  I  can't  do  any  better,  can  I  ?  " 

"Extraordinary!"  said  Mrs.  Christie,  studying  the 
cards.  "  No,  I  don't  know  that  you  can.  But  then  it's 
all  the  same,  as  you're  partners,  my  dear." 

And  Folly  smiled. 

But  soon  her  lips  began  to  droop,  for  in  the  very  next 
deal  Susan  made  a  brave  show  of  trumps;  and  in  the 
necessity  of  meeting  these,  Dummy  lay,  a  crushed  heap 
of  low  cards,  swept  away,  time  after  time,  by  her  own 
fighting-men.  At  the  end  of  the  second  game,  her 
heart  was  cold,  for  she — good,  dutiful,  pious  Florence! 
— had  thirty  tricks  and  Dummy  only  seventeen. 

By  this  she  knew  well  enough  which  way  her  will 
was  bent;  but  still  she  played  fair. 

In  the  rubber,  Dummy,  not  allowed  the  slightest 
advantage,  began  nevertheless  slowly  to  gain  upon  her. 
Folly's  heart  beat  to  suffocation  as  she  counted  trick 
after  trick  to  his  credit.  When  he  came  abreast,  she 
bit  her  lip  to  keep  in  a  cry;  and  when  he  passed  her, 

she  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  hold  the  cards. 

84 


Folly 

She  was  deaf  to  the  triumph  of  materkin  in  winning  the 
rubber;  but  her  face  wore  the  look  of  one  who  after 
long  wandering  in  a  labyrinth  of  blackness  has  come 
upon  a  sunny  way  of  exit. 

And  she  had  played  fair.  Outwardly — yes;  but  she 
put  her  hands  up  to  her  burning  face,  with  shame  that 
all  the  while  her  heart  and  will  had  been  with  the 
Adversary. 

She  came  to  her  senses  with  the  discovery  that  she 
had  risen;  and  that  the  two  other  women  were  staring 
at  her  in  wonder.  Suddenly  she  caught  up  a  pack  of 
cards  and  shook  them  over  her  head,  so  that  they 
crowned  her  for  a  second  and  then  trickled  down  to  the 
floor,  and  lay  scattered  far  and  wide. 

"I  love  cards!"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  that  ended  in 
a  sob;  and  fled  to  her  room  to  avoid  explanation.  She 
did  not  hear  her  mother-in-law's  murmured:  "I  shall 
look  in  upon  her  presently.  •  The  girl  is  beside  herself 
to-night." 

Her  shadowy  room  was  peaceful  in  the  firelight,  with 
the  soothing  drip  of  rain  from  roof  to  balcony  outside. 
She  sat  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  hugging  her  knees  and 
shivering  in  the  very  breath  of  the  flame.  She  was 
tired,  now  that  the  die  was  cast;  and  she  was  glad  that 
there  was  no  more  thinking  to  be  done.  She  had 
wronged  materkin ;  she  would  wrong  her  husband  and 
child.  There  was  no  room  for  conscience.  Nothing 
remained  to  her  but  a  year  of  Haldane's  life — no,  months 
only — and  afterward  she  must  pay  .  .  . 

85 


Folly 

Presently  she  began  to  walk  the  floor  as  she  Un- 
dressed; and  then  she  was  considering  ways  and 
means,  and  planning  how  she  should  find  him,  and 
what  she  should  say.  .  .  .  She  hated  the  ticking  of  the 
rain;  it  seemed  to  measure  off  the  moments  and  so  few 
were  left  to  her — so  few.  Oh,  why  had  she  waited  so 
long? 

She  flung  her  rings  and  brooches  and  watch  care- 
lessly upon  the  table;  but  caught  them  up  and  hid 
them,  with  the  sudden  thought  that  they  might  be 
turned  into  money,  when  money  was  so  precious  to  the 
saving  of  a  life. 

Her  fingers  trembled  and  fumbled  so  that  she  could 
scarcely  pull  down  her  hair.  She  wished  she  had 
brought  her  maid,  but  remembered  with  a  sudden  thrill 
of  joy  that  she  would  no  longer  have  a  maid,  if  she  gave 
all  her  income  to  Haldane.  And  then,  strangely  enough, 
she  played  with  her  delicious  hair,  and  dreamed  her 
dreams,  as  if  there  were  to  be  no  sorrow  in  this  sacrifice 
of  all  for  a  little Yet,  she  might  have  an- 
swered, it  was  the  one  thing,  the  one  thing  that  she 
wanted  in  this  world. 

When  at  length  she  put  out  the  light,  she  lay  with  her 
hands  clasped  under  her  head,  staring  at  the  fire  until 
its  last  flicker  died  away.  She  was  so  absorbed  that  she 
did  not  hear  a  faint  tapping  at  her  door;  and  sat  up  in 
terror  when  a  shaft  of  light  shot  across  the  ceiling,  a 
shadow  appeared,  and  the  transparent  trembling  hand 

of  materkin,  shading  a  candle-flame. 

86 


Folly 

"Not  asleep  yet?"  she  chirruped.  "I  think  you'd 
better  tell  me  what's  on  your  mind,  lass." 

"I  shouldn't  have  finished  by  morning,"  laughed 
Folly.  "It's  sleep  that  I  need  now,  mater — that's 
all." 

The  old  lady  came  and  stood  by  the  bed,  still  shad- 
ing her  candle  from  the  flushed  face  on  the  pillow. 

"Better  tell  me,"  she  insisted. 

Then  Folly  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  said  des- 
perately: "It's  money  I  want — and  money — and 
money!" 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  materkin.  "Debts— eh?  Ex- 
travagances ?  We  can  soon  make  that  right.  Don't 
want  to  ask  Andrew — I  see.  Too  proud.  I  feared  it 
might  be  something  more  serious.  Well — well — chil- 
dren! You  shall  have  a  cheque  to-morrow — my  free 
gift.  It's  a  pity,  now.  I've  mislaid  thirty  pounds  some- 
where in  the  house  to-day.  You  might  as  well  have 
had  that  too.  ..." 

But  Folly  was  sobbing  in  her  pillow:  " Don't,  mater- 
kin,  don't  ...  I  can't  ..." 

"Oh,  you  hysterical  women!"  the  old  lady  quite 
shut  herself  out  from  the  class;  but  the  scolding  soon 
turned  to  pity:  "Child — child,  you  are  all  a-tremble. 
Don't  worry  about  it.  We  shall  make  it  all  right  in  the 
morning.  Kiss  me  now  and  go  to  sleep.  Good-night." 

Folly  drew  the  sweet  old  face  close  and  held  it  long : 
"I  can't  let  you  go  now  without  telling  you." 

But  chance  again  blocked  her  way.  "No,"  said 
87 


Folly 

materkin.  "I  won't  listen  to  another  word  to-night. 
I've  heard  enough.  I  don't  care  what  you've  done  or 
undone.  You're  a  silly  unstrung  child!  In  the  morn- 
ing, when  you  have  some  sense,  we  may  talk." 

Folly  looked  after  her,  feeling  suddenly  the  futility 
of  protest.  She  had  set  her  foot  on  the  path,  how 
could  she  turn  back?  And  if  she  meant  to  sin  hope- 
lessly against  them  all,  was  it  so  much  worse ? 

"You'll  stay  in  bed  to-morrow?"  asked  Mrs. 
Christie. 

"  No,  I  must  go  up  to  town — I  must  indeed." 

"  I  see — incorrigible ! " 

She  waved  her  hand  and  closed  the  door,  leaving  the 
sinner  in — well,  perhaps,  almost  as  much  punishment 
as  she  deserved. 


88 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ON  THE  EDGE. 

"As  for  Mr.  Gregory,"  said  Mabel,  a  bit  moodily, 
"he  hasn't  returned  yet,  and  I  don't  know  when  he's 
coming." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Folly. 

"How  do  I  know  what  I  don't  know?"  Mrs.  Patrick 
laughed  to  cover  her  evasion. 

"Mab,"  said  Folly,  "are  you  engaged  to  him,  or 
trying  not  to  be  ?  " 

"Neither,"  said  Mrs.  Patrick,  with  dignity.  "We 
are  good  friends;  but  he  is  so  Quixotic  that  I'm  out  of 
patience  with  him.  Besides,  he  doesn't  write  often." 

"Where  is  he  then?" 

"He  was  at  Biarritz." 

"  But  what  for  ?    Of  all  the  places " 

"Fine  air — fine  sea,"  said  Mabel  succinctly. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  find  him?" 

"No  doubt.  My  dear  friend" — Mabel  grew  ironic 
— "is  your  adiposity  (was  it?)  become  so  serious  as  all 
that?" 

"Very  likely,"  was  Folly's  strange  answer.    "And  if 

I  go,  I  shall  be  burning  my  ships  behind  me." 

89 


Folly 

"I  wouldn't  go  just  yet,  if  I  were  you" — there  was 
malice  in  Mabel's  tone — "you'll  be  missing  some  one 
else." 

"Who?"  Folly's  eyes  anticipated  the  answer. 
"He's  not  in  town?" 

"He  is,  though.  I  met  him  in  Cavendish  Square 
yesterday." 

"For  how  long?" 

"Didn't  ask." 

"And  stopping  where?" 

Mabel  shrugged:  "If  you'd  sent  me  word  that  you 
were  coming.  ...  But  you  like  to  jump  on  people." 

Folly  mused:  "I  daresay  I  could  find  him." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Mabel  said:  "I'm  losing 
all  patience  with  you,  Folly.  You  expect  me  to  under- 
stand and  sympathize;  and  you  tell  me  nothing  at  all." 

But  Folly,  busy  with  other  thoughts,  laughed:  "It's 
a  funny  world.  And  Gregory  in  Biarritz." 

At  this  Mabel  gave  her  up:  "I  can't  bother  with  you 
any  longer.  I  leave  you  to  your  own  devices.  I'm  due 
at  the  studio  anyway." 

"What's  going  on?"  asked  Folly,  without  interest. 

"The  Disciples  are,  to-night.  They're  going  to  give 
a  play  about  souls  and  such-like  things.  They  invited 
me  to  the  rehearsal.  They  borrowed  the  studio  be- 
cause they  couldn't  afford  a  hall.  Will  you  come?" 

As  Folly  did  not  at  once  answer,  she  continued:  "I 
mentioned  it  to  your  little  poet-man.  He  may  be 

there." 

90 


Folly 

"Don't  call  him  that!"  flashed  from  Folly. 

"Well,  I  call  a  spade  a  spade,"  Mabel  defended  her- 
self, "and  he  is  all  that,  you  know." 

Folly  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  "I'll  think  about  it. 
I  haven't  any  clothes,  you  know." 

"I  told — Mr.  Gore  that  he  would  find  it  amusing," 
continued  Mabel,  with  a  sidelong  look  at  her  friend. 
"They  are  going  to  dress  symbolically,  in  gauze  and 
peacock's  feathers.  That's  what  they  want  me  for,  to 
cast  an  artist's  eye  on  the  costumes.  Bless  them,  I  shall 
do  that;  and  if  they're  not  properly  attired,  I  shall 
make  a  row.  I  think  he'll  be  there.  You've  all  after- 
noon to  get  up  something.  Sorry  I'm  too  short  to  lend 
you  any  of  my  garments.  You'll  come  ?  " 

"I'll  see,"  was  as  much  as  Folly  would  say. 

When  Mrs.  Patrick  returned,  full  of  glee  over  the 
humours  of  the  rehearsal,  she  found  her  friend  in  the 
same  chair,  in  the  same  attitude. 

"You've  not  budged!"  she  cried,  disappointed. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  telephoned  to  Sloane  Street.  My  dress 
is  here.  Come  and  see.  I  thought  I'd  be  a  '  soul '  too, 
for  once  in  my  life." 

"How  sweet!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  clasping  her  hands 
in  ecstasy,  "  and  how  strange !  What  is  it  ?  " 

"Fine  spun  wool,"  said  Folly,  lifting  a  fold  of  the 
fleecy  skirt.  "Andrew  ordered  it  for  me  when  we  were 
up  in  Shetland  several  years  ago.  The  woman  got  the 
idea  and  said  she  could  make  it;  but  it  took  her  nearly 
three  years,  knitting  most  of  the  time.  I  haven't  had 


Folly 

it  long;  and  I've  never  worn  it.  But  I  think  it  might 
suit  this  occasion,  don't  you?" 

There  was  more  meaning  in  her  tone  than  Mabel 
chose  to  understand,  so  she  took  refuge  in  admiration: 
"  It's  finer  than  spun  silk — finer  than  Valenciennes,  or 
point  d'Alencon  or  Limerick.  I  never  saw  anything  so 
exquisite!  And  those  bows  of  flame-coloured  velvet 
on  the  shoulders  and  down  the  corsage  and  edging  the 
flounce;  and  the  girdle  to  match,  and  the  nasturtiums 
for  the  hair!  You'll  look — I  don't  know  how  you'll 
look  to-night,  Folly!" 

"Young  again,  I  hope;  I've  been  old  so  long." 

"You're  not" — Mab  reached  up  to  lay  anxious 
hands  on  the  tall  friend's  shoulders — "you're  not  in 
special  need  of  me  to-night?" 

Folly  chose  to  misunderstand:  "For  the  bows,  yes; 
and  more  especially  for  the  nasturtiums.  Let  me  see — 
perhaps  I  am  symbolic,  too.  What  shall  I  stand  for? 
The  woolly  sheep  touched  with  sacrificial  fire — a 
burnt  offering  ?  How  would  that  do  ?  " 

"I  shall  wear  black,"  said  Mabel  soberly,  as  she 
released  her,  "and  if  you  kill  my  faith  in  you,  it  shall 
be  my  mourning."  She  endeavoured  to  take  a  lighter 
tone:  "And  you  mustn't  do  it,  dear;  for  I  can't  rise 
to  tragedy.  I  look  far  too  comfortable — even  in  the 
blackest  black." 

Folly  studied  her  toe  as  she  moved  it  about  on  the 
fender:  "If  I  should  be  happy  to-night — I  mean,  by 
any  chance — I  have  earned  it.  I  have  come  through 

hell  to  get  here." 

92 


Folly 

"There  you  go  again," — Mabel's  despair  was  comic. 
"I  can't  follow  you.  You'll  drive  me  distracted  with 
your  allegories!  Why  can't  you  talk  the  King's  Eng- 
lish?" 

"Shall  I?"  asked  Folly,  looking  straight  at  her. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  prefer  it.  And  you  needn't  make 
me  feel  a  criminal  by  staring  at  me  that  way.  What 
are  you  up  to  ?  I  believe  I  ought  to  telephone  for  your 
husband  or  a  keeper." 

"I  can't  quite  tell  you  what  I'm  up  to,"  said  Folly 
slowly,  "because  it  all  rests  on  the  knees  of  the  Fates. 
I  can't  peer  into  the  future.  But  I've  planned,  and  I've 
schemed,  and  I've  sinned — in  a  way  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve— and  I'm  going  to  take  my  roses  now.  To-mor- 
row"— she  would  not  put  into  words  the  thought  that 
they  would  be  withered,  but  turned  aside  with  the 
question — "who  was  it  said  Carpe  diem?" 

"Horace,  I  believe." 

"Yes.  He  was  an  old  sinner,  too,  wasn't  he?  But 
he  had  a  good  time  and  people  liked  him  none  the 
worse  for  it  then;  nor,  for  that  matter,  do  they  now.  I've 
been  starving,  but  there  are  roses  still  .  .  .  voildl 
How  like  you  my  hair?" 

"I  have  yet  to  learn  that  roses  satisfy  hunger," 
objected  Mabel.  "I  should  advise  plain  bread — and 
Andrew  gives  you  plenty.  Your  hair  ?  Are  you  trying 
to  look  like  a  Madonna?" 

"Is  it  wrong?  It's  another  side  of  me,  you  know.  I 
want  to  be  different — this  one  night." 


93 


Folly 

Mabel  reflected,  then  said  deliberately:  "I  suppose 
that  means  you  are  going  in  for  a  love  scene  with 
Haldane  Gore." 

Folly  looked  at  her  with  flaming  cheeks:  " I  have  not 
deserved  this  from  you,  Mabel." 

"I  think  you  have,"  said  Mrs.  Patrick  slowly.  "Oh, 
yes,  I  almost  think  you  have.  If  it  is  true,  may  you  be 
forgiven,  for  you  are  setting  about  it  deliberately!" 

"You  are  not  so  far  from  the  truth,"  answered  Folly, 
in  a  soft  undertone,  "yet  far  enough;  for,  of  course, 

you  could  not  know But  it's  no  use  talking.    We 

should  only  lose  our  tempers.    You  will  just  have  to 
wait.    And  what  I  do,  I  stand  by." 

Then  Mabel  was  seized  with  a  sudden  panic:  "Tell 
me,  Folly,  tell  me  before  it  is  too  late !  I  wish  we  weren't 
going;  I  wish  I  hadn't  met  him ;  I  wish " 

"He  may  not  come,"  said  Folly,  still  softly. 

"You  don't  believe  that." 

"It  does  not  matter  whether  he  comes  or  not.  Oh, 
yes,  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  There  are  ways  and 
ways.  ..." 

"  Promise  me  one  thing,"  began  Mabel. 

But  Folly  seized  her  and  began  an  improvised  dance- 
step  to  the  burden  of  a  song  that  Mabel  had  never 
heard  before: 

"Plait,  plait,  the  withes  of  the  waving  willow  tree." 

"Promise  me" — Mabel  was  losing  her  breath. 

"  So  I  weave  at  my  baskets — weave — weave — 

And  with  love  flown  away,  still  I  grieve  and  grieve " 

94 


Folly 

Mabel  jerked  herself  free :  "  Where  did  you  get  that  ?  " 
"There's  another  stanza,"  said  Folly,  "and  that's 
better. 

"  'So  I  braid  at  my  baskets — braid — braid — 
And  with  love  in  my  heart  I  am  all  unafraid ' " 

"Is  it  one  of  his?"  asked  Mrs.  Patrick. 
"Plait,  plait  the  withes  of  the  waving  willow  tree," 

sang  Folly. 

"I  asked  you  to  promise " 

Folly  was  walking  before  the  long  glass,  watching  the 
sweep  of  her  train;  but  she  turned  now,  no  longer 
attempting  evasion:  "Well,  what?  What  shall  I 
promise?" 

"Not  to  be  rash,"  pleaded  Mabel.  "Come  to  me 
first." 

"If  I  am  rash,  I  am  rash,"  said  Folly,  "for  what  is 
to  be  is  all  written  in  the  stars.  Shall  I  pass  ?" 

"Ora  pro  nobis,"  sighed  Mabel.  "I  can  do  nothing 
with  you. " 

Then  Folly  began  another  dance-step  of  her  own, 
and  whirled  her  white  cloud  backwards  and  forwards 
through  the  room : 

"Plait,  plait  the  withes " 

We  all  die,  Mab;   and  I  sometimes  think  a  short  life 

and  a  merry Are  you  ready  ?  Don't  tell  me  we've 

nearly  an  hour  to  wait!     What  have  you  got  from 
Mudie's?" 

95 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  PLAY  OF  SOULS. 

IN  proper  time  the  play  of  souls  came  on;  and  while 
the  disembodied  spirits  drifted  yearningly  and  philo- 
sophically across  the  stage,  Folly  smiled  upon  them, 
and  applauded  as  if  she  had  no  other  interest  or  care  in 
the  world. 

Between  the  acts  she  herself  became  a  little  centre  of 
attraction;  and  Bob  Crandall,  watching  from  a  dis- 
tance, grinned  and  muttered:  "Moths  and  the  flame! 
Alas,  poor  Mabel!" 

Folly  laughed  and  chattered,  and  gave  no  outward 
sign  of  the  heart-leaps  with  which  she  beheld  each 
fresh  face  at  the  door.  She  had  been  quite  honest  when 
she  told  Mabel  that  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  came 
this  night;  her  mind  was  fully  made  up.  But  never- 
theless, she  feared  to  meet  his  eyes;  for  she  knew  that 
in  a  moment,  before  she  could  catch  her  breath,  they 
would  tell  her  what  she  needed  to  learn. 

She  was  overcome  by  a  sudden  impatience  of  the 
endlessly  chanting  fools  on  the  stage,  bit  her  lip,  and 
had  to  keep  it  sucked  in  to  conceal  the  blood. 

After  a  while  Crandall  went  up  to  her,  flattered  in 
96 


Folly 

spite  of  himself  by  her  pretty  interest  in  his  analysis  of 
his  own  mental  vacillations,  as  to  whether  it  was  worth 
while  to  bestow  his  presence  upon  the  play.  He  sur- 
prised himself  by  concluding  with  a  rout  of  compli- 
ments. 

"I'll  make  Gore  savage,"  he  chuckled  maliciously. 

"Yes?"  Her  tone  was  sufficiently  indifferent;  he 
could  not  have  guessed  that  his  vapid  talk  was  become 
suddenly  pregnant.  "He  is  in  town?" 

"Left  him  at  the  club,  glum  as  a  parson  over  Punch. 
I  worried  him  to  come  and  support  me,  but  he  fairly 
jeered  me  out  of  the  room." 

"I've  not  seen  him  for  a  long  time,"  she  said.  "Has 
he  been  back  long?" 

"  Only  a  day  or  two.  Some  business  or  other.  Go- 
ing abroad  again  at  once,  he  tells  me.  I  say,  do  you 
suppose  it's  a  Great  Work,  or  what?  He's  a  perfect 
will-o'-the-wisp — and  mute  as  an  oyster.  I  couldn't 
get  a  word  out  of  him  as  to  what  mischief  he's  up  to." 

"Oh?"  she  said  indifferently. 

Then  he  spoke  of  the  dancing,  and  demanded  her 
card;  and  she  gave  it  to  him.  There  was  a  hush  of 
voices  and  a  settling  of  draperies  as  the  curtain-bell 
rang;  and  Folly,  whose  eyes  had  been  wandering  again, 
got  swiftly  to  her  feet,  with  a  gesture  to  Mrs.  Patrick 
and  a  word  to  the  amazed  Crandall,  and  made  her  way 
to  the  door.  In  the  sudden  darkness  that  followed  the 
lowering  of  the  lights,  she  held  out  her  arms  blindly. 

Neither  knew  how  long  it  was  that  they  had  been 
7  97 


Folly 

standing  with  clasped  hands  in  the  dim  hall,  while  the 
past  faded  into  an  evil  dream,  and  the  future  was  for- 
gotten, before  the  present  grew  too  tense,  and  she  said : 

"  People  may  be  coming  out.  We  can  go  into  Mab's 
study.  That  isn't  being  used  to-night." 

She  seemed  to  be  impelled  to  talk  all  the  while :  "  She 
scribbles  there  when  she  isn't  inspired  to  paint.  She'd 
do  either  better  if  she  let  the  other  alone,  wouldn't  she  ? 
It  isn't  locked,  I  know.  Yes,  this  door.  We  can  be 
quiet  here  for  a  few  moments — do  you  mind?" 

"Don't  be  silly!"  he  admonished  her;  and  her  only 
sense  was  a  wild  prayer  of  thankfulness  that  the  old 
voice  was  as  yet  unchanged. 

The  little  room  was  dark,  and  Gore  groped  for  the 
matches,  by  the  faint  light  that  came  through  the  half- 
open  door :  "  Do  you  know  where  she  keeps  them  ?  " 

"No,  nor  does  she,  except  when  the  maid's  just  been 
tidying.  Let  me  have  a  try." 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  the  wall,  but  found  him 
instead;  and  in  a  flash  the  barriers  were  gone.  But 
she  drew  away  at  once,  stumbling  against  Mabel's 
chair;  then  sank  into  it  with  her  hands  before  her 
face,  as  if  she  feared  that  even  in  the  dark  its  tale 
might  be  read. 

He  closed  the  door  softly,  then  felt  his  way  to  the 
chair,  and  leaning  across  its  back  drew  her  hands  away 
and  held  them  fast,  with  his  face  close  against  hers: 
"Well?" 

"Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  all  these  months?" 
98 


Folly 

"How  could  I  dream  that  you  wanted  to  hear?" 

"But  I  said  .  .  .  and  you  promised.  ..." 

"I  think  not — if  you  remember,"  he  answered 
quietly.  "I  never  intended  to  do  so.  I  had  done  with 
you,  then — or  rather,  I  thought  you  had  done  with 
me.  I  took  it  you  feigned  a  polite  interest.  I  did  not 
want  to  write  symptoms — there's  no  fun  in  symp- 
toms." 

She  struggled  to  control  her  voice  as  she  asked: 
"You  are— a  little— better ?" 

"Not  much" — he  seemed  amused. 

"No  worse?" 

"Not  much" — he  hesitated. 

"I  knew  nothing.  I  could  not  help.  Can  you  be- 
lieve that  it  has  been  killing  me?" 

There  was  a  silence  before  he  said:  "It  is  so  new  to 
think  that  you  care  at  all.  I  had  got  used  to — the 
other.  Poor  little  Folly " 

"Yes,  poor  Folly,"  she  repeated.  "And  what  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

He  would  have  kissed  her  then,  but  she  withdrew  her 
hands,  crying  with  a  sort  of  desperation,  "Oh,  we  must 
find  the  matches  and  talk  it  over — talk  it  over — " 

And  presently  her  sleeve  knocked  the  box  to  the 
floor;  and  he  found  it  and  lighted  and  adjusted  the 
gas  reading-lamp.  All  the  while  she  sat  with  lowered 
eyelids,  as  if  she  were  unwilling  or  afraid  to  look  at 
him.  He  divined  her  thought  and  laughed,  saying: 
"I'm  not  so  changed  that  you  need  mind." 

99 


Folly 

Then  she  took  courage  and  raised  her  eyes;  and 
when  she  saw  that  he  was  indeed  the  same,  only  rather 
pinched  about  the  nose,  and  with  deeper  hollows  in  the 
temples,  she  dropped  back  into  Mabel's  chair  with  a 
sigh. 

He  remained  standing  by  the  desk.  "Well,  what's 
to  talk  over?"  he  asked,  rather  brusquely. 

"Me,"  she  began;  and  then,  as  if  to  gain  time, 
added  hurriedly:  "Bob  Crandall  said  you  weren't 
coming." 

"  Somebody  dropped  in  at  the  club  and  told  me  you 
were  here.  So  I  reflected  for  a  while — which  makes 
the  matter  rather  worse — and  then  I  came.  Now  you 
have  the  truth." 

"What  are  you  doing — for  it?" 

He  followed  her  turn  of  thought:  "Nothing.  Hang- 
ing about.  Gregory's  doing." 

"Is  he — was  he — with  you,  then?" 

"  Dragged  me  off  to  Biarritz.  Said  it  was  a  cheerful 
place,  and  he  wanted  a  rest,  anyway.  Experiments  on 
me  now  and  then.  He's  got  a  kitchen  and  a  zoo  there; 
and  occasionally  he  takes  a  few  days  off  and  runs  up  to 
Paris.  I  don't  try  to  follow  his  messing  about ".  .  .  he 
seemed  to  muse. 

"Yes?  Yes?  It's  good  to  know  he's  with  you,"  she 
said  eagerly. 

"I  didn't  want  him  to  come.  I  was  for  going  away 
alone,  but  I  couldn't  shake  him  off — stuck  like  a 

leech." 

100 


Folly 

"Yes,  yes;  then  all  this  time  hasn't  been  wasted. 
Oh,  I  am  thankful  for  that!  Do  you  know,  I  came  up 
now  because  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer — to  consult 
him — to  ask  him " 

"You're  not  ill?"  he  jerked  out. 

"No,  to  ask  him — to  ask  him — to  put  aside  his 
practice — and  do — what  he  is  doing." 

"And  who  was  to  pay?"  he  demanded  bluntly. 

"I  was.  I  could  have  offered  him  nearly  five  hun- 
dred a  year.  It's  nothing,  but  it's  all  I  have.  ...  I 
have  tried  and  tried  to  think  how  I  could  get  more. 
But  I  believed  that  perhaps  he  might — being  your 
friend " 

He  had  no  word  of  thanks,  but  came  and  knelt  by 
her  chair;  and  she  smiled  upon  him. 

"He  sent  me  over  now  to  see  Mortimer  and  get  his 
opinion.  He  thinks  he's  on  the  track  of  something. 
He  won't  say  a  word;  but  I  know  by  the  glint  in  his 
eye.  It's  extraordinary  what  fools  your  clever  men  are 
sometimes.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  gave  up  hoping  long  ago — too 
much  trouble — the  present's  good  enough.  And  I 
should  have  packed  him  back  to  his  business,  only,  you 
know,  he's  so  jolly  well  pleased  with  his  poor  little 
beasties  and  messes  ...  I  hate  to  throw  cold  water. . . . 
And  besides,  ninety- nine  fellows  fail,  and  the  hundredth 
man  gets  it.  .  .  . " 

"You  do  hope!"  she  cried  passionately.  "Ah — 
hope!" 

He  smiled  at  her :   "I  wish  I  could  paint  you  now :  an 
101 


Polly 

angel  crowned  and  touched  with  the  flames  and  flowers 
of  life.  If  I  had  the  brush  of  Sargent,  I  could  make 
my  fortune.  It's  a  new  idea — the  angel  Folly ' ' 

"Among  the  lost,"  she  whispered,  and  dropped  head 
and  arms  together  on  her  knees,  with  a  sudden  sob. 

He  went  away  from  her  then,  and  toyed  with  a  paper- 
knife  on  the  table,  pale  with  the  sense  that  his  resolu- 
tion was  slipping  from  him  fast,  though  he  clung  to  it 
as  a  drowning  man  to  a  rope  that  is  being  slowly  drawn 
away  from  his  failing  strength. 

"Hal,  will  you  take  that  money?" 

He  smiled  a  negative :  "What  for ? " 

"It  might  help.  Gregory  might  be  able  to  do 
more " 

"Nonsense!" 

"  Mortimer  then " 

"I've  seen  him.  He  knows  it's  all  bally  rot.  I  shall 
have  to  tell  Greg  when  I  get  back.  But  he'll  probably 
stick  to  his  idea  all  the  same;  he's  as  obstinate  as  a 

Pig." 

"There  may  be  something  in  it,"  she  pleaded. 

"There  won't  be  your  money  in  it — not  while  I  am 
alive,"  he  asserted  vigorously. 

"Not  if "  the  words  refused  to  come;  but  he 

read  them  in  her  face. 

"Don't  say  it,  Folly." 

"Why,  it's  been  waiting  for  months  to  be  said." 
But  she  was  almost  choked  by  her  heart-beats  before 

she  got  it  out :  "  Not  if  I  come,  too  ?  " 

1 02 


He  walked  away  to  the  window:  "Ah,  that  needs 
consideration.  But  I  thought  we  had  threshed  it  all 
out  in  April?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "The  case  is  quite  different 
now." 

"How  different?" 

"Well,  it's  that  I  am  different,  then.  Your  need  is 
greater  than — theirs." 

"You  think  so?"    His  tone  sounded  cold. 

"Ah,  Hal,  don't  consider" — she  held  out  her  hands. 
"I've  tried  all  I  could,  and  I'm  done.  Just  take  me 
away  somewhere." 

"Your  husband?"  he  asked,  returning  to  the  paper- 
knife,  and  studying  it  as  if  it  were  a  great  curiosity. 

"He  has  had  his  chance." 

"And  the  boy?" 

"He  doesn't  need  me  so  much  now;  he  will  need  me 
still  less.  Other  women  with  children  have  done  the 
same.  ..." 

"Are  you  excusing  yourself?"  he  asked,  speaking 
harshly,  but  with  no  harshness  in  his  eyes. 

She  looked  straight  before  her  without  answering. 

"People — your  friends — the  world?" 

She  shrugged. 

"Is  there  no  one ?" 

"One — one!"  she  cried;  and  then,  in  sudden  fear: 
"Hal,  I  begin  to  doubt  you!" 

He  came  and  stood  looking  down  upon  her  then: 
"You  need  never  do  that.  But  I  am  thinking  for 

103 


Folly 

you.  It's  so  much  to  lose — and  for  such  a  short 
time." 

"  To-day — and  to-day — and  to-day,"  she  answered, 
smiling  upon  her  finger-tips;  but  while  he  was  wonder- 
ing how  she  had  arrived  at  this  philosophy  of  his,  she 
was  overcome  by  fright  again,  and  clutched  his  arm, 
whispering:  "How  long?" 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  I  knew  in  April;  but 
not  long  compared  with  a  life-time — with  yours." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  with  a  low  laugh: 
"  But  need  mine  be  so  long?" 

He  studied  her  before  he  answered:  "In  common 
decency  it  must  go  on  to  its  natural  limits." 

"And  do  you  see  me  old ?"  she  still  defied  him. 

"1  have  known  old  women — decayed,  toothless, 
hollow,  hairless,  patched  and  coloured — and  unre- 
spected;  and  if  you  come  with  me  now " 

{'I  shall  be  like  that?  It's  a  pleasing  picture.  But 
my  flame  will  have  burned  out  long  before." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about!  "  he 
said,  with  sudden  anger.  "Love  burns  down,  and  joy 
and  hope;  but  the  embers  of  life  go  on  and  on,  even 
when  they  are  smothered  in  ash.  How  then?" 

"I'm  willing  to  pay,  if  you  are."     She  did  not  flinch. 

At  this,  something  gave  way  in  his  resolve,  and  he 
went  again  to  lean  over  her  chair. 

"I  willing?"  he  said.  "God  knows  how  you  tempt 
me.  But  you?  I'm  not  willing  you  should  pay,  be- 
cause you  don't  know  the  cost.  I  should  be  a  brute  if 

I  let  you  come,  Folly." 

104 


Folly 

She  rose,  trembling,  and  clinging  to  her  chair;  "And 
what  should  I  be — if  I  come?" 

"Only  Folly — only  dear  Folly,"  he  said,  with  a  brave 
show  of  gentle  amusement. 

She  sank  back  again  and  strove  to  grasp  the  situa- 
tion: "I  don't  understand  you.  You  have  changed. 
I  suppose  it's  your  illness.  You  mean,  that  you  want 
me  to  go  back — home?" 

He  nodded  slightly. 

"That  you  won't  take  my  money?  That  you  want 
me  to  wait — and  wait — and  wait — until  you  die?" 

"  If  you  were  with  me,"  he  began,  then  changed  the 
form  of  his  sentence:  "For  one  thing,  I  want  to  spare 
you  a — "  he  hesitated — "a  damned  ugly  sight." 

"But  Gregory — haven't  I  as  much  right ?" 

"It's  Gregory's  profession." 

"Not  in  this  case — oh,  not  in  this  case;  he's  your 
friend,  while  I.  .  .  ."  She  controlled  her  voice  and 
went  on:  "I  can  see  plainly  enough  that  you  have 
changed.  You  have  slipped  away  from  me — there's  a 
veil  between  us — and  you  don't  need  me  now." 

He  returned  yet  again  to  the  paper-knife,  in  an 
obstinate  silence. 

"Do  you?"  she  pleaded. 

"No,"  he  answered,  without  looking  at  her. 

"I  should  be  only  in  the  way?" 

"Yes."  He  tossed  the  fragments  of  the  paper-knife 
from  him. 

There  was  a  silence  until  she  said  presently,  in  her 


Folly 

old  light  manner:  "We're  missing  the  best  of  the  play, 
talking  nonsense  here.  Shall  we  go  back  ?  " 

He  assented  with  a  nod.  She  rose,  shivering  a  little, 
and  glanced  about  the  room  as  if  uncertain  what  she 
ought  to  do  or  say  next. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  put  out  the  light,"  she  sug- 
gested, as  he  did  not  move. 

"I  will,  soon." 

She  tried  to  summon  her  wits,  one  hand  gathering  in 
her  trailing  skirt,  the  other  moving  restlessly  from  fore- 
head to  throat  and  back  again.  "So  it  is  the  end?" 
she  asked  at  length. 

And  when  he  could  not  look  at  her  or  answer, 
she  drew  near,  and  clasped  white  pleading  hands 
against  his  breast.  Her  voice,  sweeter  and  more 
penetrating  in  its  grief,  breathed  upon  him:  "Havel 
lost  every-thing  with  you,  then?  Can  I  no  longer 
tempt  you?" 

He  could  only  seize  the  hands  to  keep  her  away,  as 
he  stumbled  for  words :  "  My  loss — my  loss.  But  you'll 
be  happy  yet." 

With  that  she  left  him;  but  when  she  reached  the 
door,  laid  her  face  against  the  panel,  as  if  she  could 
go  no  further:  "I  don't  know  what's  to  happen  now, 
since  you  won't  — have  me." 

He  cursed  his  own  feebleness  that  could  find  nothing 
better  to  say  than:  "It's  rough  on  us  both,  girl;  but 
you'll  see  it  through." 

"I?    So  Mab  said.    But  you?    Ah,  you  have  gone 
106 


Folly 

millions  of  miles  away  from  me  already — so  it  doesn't 
matter.  ..." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  then,  thinking  she  would 
fall;  but  she  withdrew  at  once,  conscious  of  the  im- 
palpable barrier  between  them.  Then  suddenly  her 
courage  came  back  in  a  wave,  and  she  towered  above 
him  magnificently:  "I'm  sorry  I've  been  such  a  fool. 
I  haven't  escaped  the  common  lot  of  women;  but  I 
trust  I've  learned  my  lesson.  Please  forget  to-night. 
.  .  .  Good-bye." 

He  was  whiter  than  she,  as  they  clung  to  each  other's 
hands  in  silence;  then  he  opened  the  door  for  her,  and 
she  went  away  without  looking  back. 

As  she  stood  at  the  studio  door,  she  was  aware  of  the 
subdued  clapping  of  hands  and  polite  bravos:  the 
play  of  souls  was  done. 


107 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LIFE  FOR  LIFE. 

So  Haldane  Gore  was  not  seen  at  the  play  after  all; 
but  Mrs.  Christie  stayed  on,  drank  coffee,  and  danced, 
and  discussed  the  action  with  much  friendly  eulogy  of 
acts  and  actors. 

Mabel's  eyebrows  were  disapproving,  and  once  or 
twice  she  suggested  that  Folly  go  home. 

"Shall  I  retreat?"  said  Folly,  laughing.  "Do  you 
want  to  do  me  out  of  my  dances  ?  It's  a  funny  thing, 
Mab.  I'm  haunted  by  an  old  tale  that  I've  read  some- 
where— I  can't  remember  the  name  of  it  or  how  it  went ; 
but  there  was  a  knight  who  rode  under  a  portcullis, 
and  this  fell  upon  his  horse,  and  left  him  inside  with 
the  one  half,  and  the  other  half  outside.  ..." 

"Well?"  asked  Mabel  uneasily. 

"  Can  you  think  how  the  horse  felt  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  you'd  better  go  home;  you're  overtired." 

"But  I  told  you  this  was  my  one  night,  and  I  in- 
tended to  be  happy;  and  it's  not  half  done  yet." 

Mabel  believed  that  she  understood  dimly  some- 
thing of  what  had  happened;  but  before  she  could 

speak  Crandall  came  up  with  his  programme. 

108 


Folly 

So  Folly  danced  and  smiled,  and  knew  by  the  faces 
of  the  men  about  her  that  she  was  quite  as  charming 
as  in  the  old  days  before  she  married  Andrew.  She 
danced  with  any  one  who  laid  claim  to  a  number, 
and  could  not  tell  afterwards  who  had  been  her  part- 
ners. She  talked  as  in  a  dream,  wondering  now 
and  then  that  what  she  said  should  pass  as  not  unrea- 
sonable. 

She  had  no  idea  of  the  time,  when  she  was  awakened 
into  full  consciousness  by  a  crash.  She  seemed  to  have 
been  dancing  with  Crandall  again,  for  he  was  standing 
with  her  by  a  window,  and  one  of  them  must  have 
knocked  over  the  flower-pot  that  lay  in  fragments  at 
their  feet.  Between  them  and  the  light,  against  a  back- 
ground of  whirling  figures,  stood  Mabel,  and  Mabel 
was  saying: 

"Folly,  Andrew  is  in  the  study;  he  wants  to  see 
you." 

"Oh,  not  there!"  flashed  to  Folly's  lips;  but  she 
could  not  tell  whether  she  had  spoken  the  words  or  not. 

"What  does  he  want?"  she  asked,  turning  away 
from  Crandall. 

"Go  and  see.  Don't  be  frightened,"  said  Mabel 
pityingly. 

So  she  passed  in  and  out  among  the  dancers,  and 
found  her  husband  standing  by  the  green-shaded  light 
in  the  little  room  where  she  had  looked  her  last  upon 
Haldane  Gore. 

She  faced  him  in  silence,  twisting  her  handkerchief 
109 


Folly 

between  her  fingers,  wondering  if  by  any  chance  the 
two  men  had  met. 

"I  think  we'll  go  home  by  the  midnight  train,"  said 
he  gently. 

She  awaited  the  explanation,  which  came  at  once: 
"The  little  chap's  been  taken  rather  bad." 

"  Dead  ?  "  was  all  she  could  say. 

"Nonsense!"    He  affected  cheerfulness. 

She  thrust  the  green  shade  up  so  as  to  throw  a  strong 
light  on  his  face:  "You're  not  deceiving  me?" 

He  met  her  eyes  squarely:  "No,  I  left  him  better. 
But  there's  no  time  to  lose,  or  we  shall  miss  the  train. 
Get  your  cloak.  Mab  understands." 

Afterwards  she  fell  back  again  into  her  dream :  there 
was  a  long  stairway,  a  room  full  of  cloaks,  and  a  night- 
mare of  a  struggle  to  make  a  woman  understand  which 
was  hers,  when  she  had  lost  her  check  for  it  and  could 
not  remember  its  colour.  But  at  length  she  was  in  a 
swift-pattering  cab,  with  the  wind  streaming  against 
her  face,  and  the  double  line  of  lights  down  the  street 
turning  into  streaks  that  ran  to  meet  each  other  far 
away  where  there  was  a  great  congregation  of  coloured 
lamps.  .  .  .  Somebody  was  with  her  in  the  cab,  talk- 
ing of  telegrams.  To  her  amazement,  she  found  that 
it  was  her  husband,  and  wondered  why  he  was  there, 
and  where  they  were  going. 

"You  didn't  get  any  of  them?"  he  was  saying. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  shouldn't  have  run  away  like  that,"  he  expos- 
HP 


Folly 

tulated.  "As  much  mystery  as  if  you  had  been  going 
to  elope.  I  tried  to  reach  you  through  the  mater  first, 
then  at  Sloane  Street;  and  by  the  time  I  remembered 
that  Mabel  was  at  home,  I  suppose  you  had  gone  out. 
But  I  found  there  was  an  express,  and  I  wasn't  any 
good  at  Sunlands  anyway,  so  I  thought  the  best  plan 
was  for  me  to  come  and  fetch  you.  We  shall  just  do  it, 
I  think." 

"You  haven't  told  me  what ?" 

"Croup,"  said  he. 

She  shivered,  and  he  put  up  the  glass.  But  she  had 
turned  cold  at  the  memory  of  something  his  mother 
had  said. 

"It's  nothing  to  worry  about,"  he  tried  to  comfort 
her.  "  I  used  to  get  it  often  when  I  was  a  little  chap." 

"I  know." 

"The  mater  used  to  sit  up  nights  with  me " 

"Oh,  don't!" — he  touched  conscience  there.  "Was 
it  Jenny's  fault?" 

"I  don't  think  so — pure  accident.  They  were 
caught  in  a  shower,  you  see.  It  might  have  happened 
any  day." 

She  understood  well  enough  that  he  was  excusing 
her  absence  to  herself;  but  remorse  cried  out:  "I 
shouldn't  have  let  them  go,  if  I  had  been  at  home — oh, 
I  shouldn't!" 

"Now  you  are  blaming  me,"  he  said,  to  turn  her 
thoughts,  although  he  knew  very  well  that  it  was  her- 
self she  was  scourging. 

in 


Folly 

He  went  on  to  explain  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  what 
he  had  done,  and  how  his  mother  had  sent  Susan  on 
by  the  first  train.  She  felt  an  unreasonable  pang  of 
jealousy  that  Susan  should  be  in  her  place;  but  she 
was  a  little  comforted  too. 

She  did  not  speak  again  until  they  were  alone  in  their 
compartment :  "  People  don't  die  so  quickly,  Andrew  ?  " 

But  he  only  said:  "Not  often.    We  must  hope." 

The  train  was  well  out  of  the  suburbs  before  she  said : 
"If  it  did  happen,  I  should  know  it  was  a  judgment 
from  God." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly  from  under  his  shabby  cap; 
but  he  neither  stirred  nor  spoke. 

Presently  she  moved  a  little  closer:  "Andrew,  I 
think  now  I  ought  to  tell  you  everything." 

She  was  somewhat  daunted  by  his  cool:  "As  you 
like." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  know?"  she  demanded. 

He  meditated  a  moment,  then:  "What  I  want  to 
know  I  find  out  for  myself.  What  you  wish  to  tell  is 
another  matter  altogether." 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  Was  he  so  dense  as 
she  had  supposed  ?  How  much  did  he  know  or  guess  ? 
And  did  he  think  or  suspect  that  this  confession  was  a 
voluntary  act  of  penance — a  peace-offering  to  God  ? 

"It's  this  way,"  she  said,  with  an  effort  at  self-pos- 
session. "To-night  I  had  a  balance  in  my  hands, 
whether  to  stay  or  go.  I  thought  I  could  choose;  but 
the  one  way  was  barred  to  me,  and  now  the  other " 

112 


Folly 

He  did  not  commit  himself  as  to  how  much  meaning 
he  got  out  of  this  tangled  speech. 

" Did  you  know  that — that  Haldane  Gore  is  dying?" 

"No,"  said  he. 

"You  know  that  I— that  we " 

He  did  not  wince :  "I  knew  that." 

"Then  you  know  that  we  did  our  best "  She 

closed  her  eyes  against  the  persistent  vision  of  a  little 
child  fighting  for  breath.  "You  know  that  we  have 
always  tried  to  do  what  was  right." 

"I  know,"  said  he  more  quickly. 

"Until  to-night.  To-night  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  drop  everything  and  go  away  with  him.  ..." 

He  turned  abruptly  from  her  and  stared  at  the 
blank  window,  not  seeing  that  it  reflected  his  own  grim 
face  and  her  drooping  head. 

"Well,"  said  he  harshly,  "why  didn't  you?" 

"He  would  not  have  me,"  she  answered  steadily. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  asked :  "  Do  you  know 
why?" 

"It  comes  to  me  now,"  she  said.  "At  first  I  thought 
he  had  changed ;  but  when  I  remember  all  that  he  said, 
and  how  he  looked,  I  know  that  he  was  only  holding 
both  of  us  to  our  duty." 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  all  this?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  have  already  explained.  I'll  make  it  clearer.  It's  a 
bargain,  I  tell  you,  with  God — with  the  powers  that  rule 
earth  and  heaven.  If  the  baby  is  spared,  I  shall  take 

it  as  a  sign.  ...  I  shall  know  my  way.    If  not ..." 
8  113 


Folly 

"I  understand,"  said  he.  "This  is  a  warning  to  me. 
You  are  gambling  again;  but  you  don't  quite  know 
the  stakes  you  are  playing  for." 

She  turned  her  passionate  eyes  upon  him:  "I  will 
not  lose  them  both!" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  and  she  interpreted  his 
glance  to  mean:  "And  where  do  I  come  in?" 

"You  go  to  the  wall,"  said  she,  "but  you've  had 
your  chance." 

"It  seems,  then,"  said  he  slowly,  "that  you  are 
prepared  to  throw  me  over,  at  any  moment,  for  this 
man  who  may,  or  may  not  want  you " 

"I  have  no  doubt  in  the  world!"  she  cried.  "But  I 
should  make  sure — oh,  very  sure,  before  I " 

"Dropped  me — eh?  Well,  there's  sense  in  that," 
he  said  bitterly.  "And  I  am  to  owe  whatever  favour  I 
get  from  you  in  the  future  to  the  continued  existence  of 
my  son?  Is  that  it?  Sounds  rather  odd." 

"You  are  to  pity  me — and  him — and  all  of  us,"  she 
whispered,  "because  you  are  strong." 

She  moved  nearer  and  laid  her  tired  head  on  his 
shoulder.  He  neither  repulsed  her,  nor  drew  her  to 
him;  but  after  a  moment,  seized  her  hand  that  was 
toying  with  the  clasp  of  her  cloak — seized  it  and  held  it 
fast,  chafing  it  and  stroking  it,  in  a  sort  of  gentle  pity. 

The  carriage  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  station; 
and  the  coachman  leaned  forward  at  once,  with  a  reas- 
suring message  from  the  doctor. 

They  drove  in  silence  until  they  turned  in  through 
114 


Folly 

the  gateway  at  Sunlands;  then  Folly  said,  more  to 
herself  than  to  him:  "I  knew  it  could  not  happen  be- 
fore I  got  home." 

In  the  empty  brightly-lighted  hall,  she  unclasped  her 
cloak  as  if  strangled  by  the  weight  of  it.  Then  she 
turned  to  him,  white  enough  under  the  radiance  of  her 
hair;  and  he  found  occasion  to  wonder  that  he  under- 
stood her  appealing  glance. 

"I'll  go  up  and  see,"  he  answered,  as  if  she  had 
spoken. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  and  her  resolution  sprang 
forth  full-grown. 

"No,"  she  said,  tossing  him  her  cloak,  "I  shall  go. 
That  is  mine  to  do — everything  is  mine.  I  shall  try  to 
be  like — your  mother." 

She  ran  up  the  stairway,  and  he  heard  her  softly  open 
and  close  the  nursery  door ;  and  the  little  wail  that  began 
in  the  interval,  assured  him  that  all  was  still  well. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  the  empty  cloak  that  he 
carried  on  his  arm.  It  was  in  some  measure  a  symbol 
of  his  marriage. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  KEEPING  OF  THE  BARGAIN. 

NOVEMBER  at  Sunlands  is  as  little  dreary  as  that 
month  of  fogs  can  be  in  England,  for  there  is  nearly 
always  a  good  breeze  blowing  off  the  Downs,  and  the 
house  turns  its  windows  to  every  ray  of  sunshine.  Usu- 
ally Christie  was  more  than  content  with  his  inheritance 
in  this  time  of  blazing  logs,  when  a  man  could  give  his 
time  to  his  collections,  and  the  new  books  and  journals; 
but  in  this  strange  year  of  his  life  he  wasted  many  hours 
in  lonely  fireside  ponderings  over  questions  of  duty  and 
conduct.  It  was  seriously  unlike  himself  to  carry 
through  trains  of  conjecture,  as:  "If  so-and-so  hap- 
pened, I  should,"  etc.,  or  "In  such  and  such  a  case," 
etc.  But  by  the  time  that  he  was  relieved  of  immediate 
anxiety  concerning  the  child's  health,  he  found  that  the 
habit  had  become  invincible. 

He  had  no  doubt  from  the  first  that  Folly  intended 
to  hold  to  her  bargain  with  Providence :  her  child's  life 
over  against  her  lover's.  Horrible  as  the  idea  was,  it 
furnished  him  with  grotesque  amusement ;  no  one  but 

Folly  could  have  devised  it. 

116 


Folly 

Meanwhile,  she  made  a  slave  of  herself  to  the 
baby,  relegating  the  nurse  to  the  humble  post  of  wait- 
ing attendant.  Her  devotion  would  have  been  funny  if 
it  had  not  been  rendered  touching  by  the  grim  tragedy 
behind  it.  She  was  practical,  too,  in  her  fighting  spirit; 
for  upon  learning  from  the  doctor  that  attacks  similar 
to  the  first  were  to  be  expected,  she  surrounded  herself 
with  all  possible  appliances,  and  learned  by  rote  the 
things  to  be  done  in  case  of  emergency.  To  a  stranger 
watching,  it  would  have  seemed  that  her  child  was  the 
most  precious  thing  on  earth  to  her;  but  her  husband 
sometimes  wondered  whether  in  fighting  for  its  life,  she 
realized  also  a  battle  for  honour  against  passion  in  her 
soul. 

They  were  bound  to  meet  often  during  these  days; 
and  at  first,  upon  each  occasion,  both  were  conscious 
of  awkwardness  and  discomfort.  It  was  not  possible 
to  allude  to  her  wild  confession  the  night  he  brought 
her  from  town ;  but  each  read  the  memory  of  it  in  the 
other's  eyes. 

And  yet,  when  she  had  recovered  a  little  from  the 
shock,  Folly  in  the  nursery  was  a  picture  quaint  and 
pretty  enough  to  distract  any  man  from  estate  business 
and  local  politics,  riding,  newspapers  and  correspond- 
ence with  learned  bodies.  Unf orbidden,  Christie  found 
it  extremely  pleasant  to  look  in,  many  times  a  day,  to 
discuss  steam-kettles,  the  vagaries  of  a  thermometer, 
the  pros  and  cons  of  glycerine  soap,  and  the  symptoms 

of  teething.    And  when  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 

117 


Folly 

Said,  he  often  stood,  shifting  his  weight  like  a  school- 
boy, studying  the  two  by  the  fire. 

He  could  not  tell  whether  he  liked  them  best  with 
small  Dandle  making  tangles  in  his  mother's  hair,  or 
asleep  in  the  cradle  with  her  foot  on  the  rocker  and  her 
hands  busy  with  Shetland  wool.  She  went  on  making 
an  endless  store  of  tiny  socks  and  jackets  and  shirts; 
and  it  crossed  his  mind  once  or  twice  that  she  looked 
upon  this  array  of  things  as  in  some  sense  a  pledge — 
from  whom,  who  might  say? — that  he  would  live  to 
wear  them  all.  From  the  look  of  her  face  it  seemed 
sometimes  as  if  she  were  knitting  all  her  hopes  and 
dreams  into  the  intricate  stitches,  as  if  to  hold  those 
fragile  blessings  safe  there  for  all  tune. 

One  day  he  stumbled  upon  them  at  the  time  of  the 
bath,  and  broke  out  in  a  boyish  exclamation : 

"I  say !  You  ought  to  be  painted  like  that,  you 
know." 

"Quick,  the  screen,"  she  chid  him.  "Don't  come 
too  near;  you're  just  in  from  the  cold  air." 

She  knelt  by  the  bath  on  the  hearth-rug,  enveloped 
in  a  vast  blue  pinafore,  with  the  nurse  looking  on,  half 
superior,  and  half  indignant  at  being  deprived  of  office. 
Between  her  own  clumsiness  with  the  sponge  and  the 
baby's  wilful  splashing,  she  was  much  spotted  with 
water,  and  her  hair  hung  in  damp  tendrils  about  her 
flushed  face.  Nevertheless,  she  was  laughing  a  re- 
sponse to  young  Dandie's  liberal  display  of  his  six 

teeth,  and  crooning  love- words  to  his  gurgles  of  triumph 

It8 


Polly 

in  having  made  her  so  wet;  and  the  man  looking  on, 
could  scarcely  believe  that  she  was  the  pale  passionate 
woman  who,  only  a  few  days  before,  had  been  willing 
to  abandon  all  this  at  the  call  of  a  stranger.  Was  it 
acting,  he  asked  himself,  or  the  pride  of  a  spirit  that 
held  itself  rigidly  to  a  self-imposed  contract  ?  He  could 
not  tell. 

One  thing  he  noticed,  that  much  as  she  cuddled  the 
baby,  talked  and  crooned  and  laughed  over  him,  she 
never  sang  any  of  the  old  lullabies  that  he  had  learned 
to  listen  for  in  the  early  spring.  Hesitatingly  he  asked 
her  one  day.  She  shook  her  head. 

"That  would  be  too  much.  It  has  cost  dear  enough 
to  do  what  I  do." 

He  rarely  blazed  as  he  did  then;  and  yet  first  he 
stood  some  seconds  before  her,  restraining  speech  until 
he  could  master  his  words:  "We  don't  want  you  here 
— Dandie  and  I — if  you  regret " 

Again  she  shook  her  head  with  a  glance  at  the  child 
that  lay  crowing  on  her  knee : 

"I  don't  regret.  It  was  a  fair  bargain.  But  you  ask 
me  to  sing." 

He  laughed:  "I  think  I'll  go  back  to  my  cottage  im- 
provements." And  he  strode  downstairs,  wondering 
if  many  men  were  so  perplexed,  so  harassed,  in  the 
devious  ways  of  married  life. 

But  she  went  to  the  door  and  called  him  back: 
"Andrew,  will  you  see  to  it  that  the  telephone  is  never 

out  of  order?" 

119 


Folly 

"What?  There's  nothing  wrong  with  it — never 
has  been." 

"Then  keep  it  so,"  she  insisted.  "We  mustn't  take 
any  chances." 

"  You  borrow  trouble,"  he  said  more  kindly.  "  You'll 
be  distracted  when  he  comes  to  whooping-cough." 

"I  have  everything  else  ready,"  she  pursued,  "but  I 
just  remembered  the  telephone.  They  do  go  wrong 
sometimes.  .  .  .  There's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't 
grow  up  perfectly  healthy." 

"He'll  live  to  be  eighty,"  Christie  agreed  heartily. 
"  But  you've  got  to  expect  croup  and  the  like." 

She  turned  her  head  suddenly  and  went  back  into 
the  nursery.  He  followed  and  found  her  bent  over  the 
cradle,  listening  to  the  child's  breathing.  Presently  she 
looked  up  and  smiled,  perhaps  touched  by  his  ex- 
pression : 

"  It's  all  right.  I'm  a  bit  nervous."  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  him:  "You're  the  best  man  in  the  world,  An- 
drew— St.  Andrew!  You  ought  never  to  have  been 
afflicted  with  a  Folly.  What  could  you  expect?" 

"He  could  not  have  expected  a  more  devoted  mother," 
said  he,  keeping  her  hand. 

"Ah,  materkin?" — she  flushed  faintly.  "If  I  were 
half  as  good " 

"You're  holding  your  own,"  was  as  much  as  he 
thought  it  wise  to  suggest. 

They  came  no  nearer  to  an  understanding;  but  even 

this  was  enough  to  show  them  that  patched-up  lives  are 

1 20 


Folly 

not  intolerable.    He  clung  to  the  secret  hope  that  the 
boy  would  yet  bring  them  together. 

On  an  afternoon  late  in  the  month,  with  the  sun 
shining  clearly  between  the  bare  branches,  Folly  from 
the  window  saw  her  husband  riding  away  down  the 
avenue.  She  wondered  where  he  was  going,  and  was 
faintly  vexed  that  he  did  not  glance  up  toward  the 
nursery.  Then  she  thought  about  him  for  a  while,  and 
pondered  whether  he  might  be  lonely  now  that  her  life 
was  so  utterly  absorbed  in  the  duties  of  motherhood. 
Yet  she  knew  that  she  dared  not  relax — not  for  a  mo- 
ment— lest  that  other  grief  should  catch  her  in  its 
claws  again.  .  .  . 

She  fixed  her  attention  upon  tracing  out  the  curves 
and  crooks  of  the  branches,  upon  the  homily  of  a  squir- 
rel over  an  acorn,  upon  the  degree  of  purple  in  the 
Downs — upon  various  incidents  and  details  of  the 
landscape  before  her,  that  might  keep  her  thoughts 
away  from  the  Forbidden  Country. 

There  came  a  sudden  chill  of  twilight  as  the  sun 
dropped  into  a  cloud;  and  with  it  a  stir  within  the 
room,  and  the  rasping  choke  that  she  dreaded  and 
yet  listened  to  hear. 

Instantly  her  finger  was  on  the  bell,  and  before  the 
frightened  nurse  came  running,  she  had  lighted  a  spirit- 
lamp  and  flung  a  blanket  on  the  fender  to  be  heated. 
There  was  no  time  for  fear  or  hesitation ;  all  her  powers 
rushed  into  action.  She  hurried  one  maid  to  telephone 
for  the  doctor,  another  to  fill  the  hot  bath,  a  third 

121 


Folly 

to  send  a  groom  to  try  to  find  her  husband. 
She  herself,  with  swift  strong  fingers  that  neither  trem- 
bled nor  fumbled,  had  unswathed  the  gasping  little 
body  by  the  time  that  the  hot  water  was  ready. 

She  worked,  and  her  mind  remembered  as  she 
worked;  she  thought  of  all  things  possible  and  did 
them.  And  when  the  maids  huddled  together,  aimless 
and  weeping,  she  sent  them  away,  all  but  the  nurse; 
and  dry-eyed  went  through  the  whole  process  that  she 
had  so  often  rehearsed  in  anticipation. 

She  watched  the  struggle  for  breath,  the  little  fists 
beating  the  air,  the  blackening  of  the  face;  and  with 
grim  lips  never  once  relaxed  her  efforts  until  the  child 
grew  still. 

Then,  as  the  nurse  offered  a  fresh  hot  blanket,  she 
pushed  it  away  and  turned  her  back;  so  sat  until  the 
doctor  came  in.  And  Jenny  was  afraid  to  move  or 
speak. 

He  was  a  grave  silent  man,  and  crossed  over  to  her 
without  a  word.  She  looked  up,  and  they  understood 
each  other. 

He  was  brief  in  his  examination;  and  when  he  would 
have  taken  the  child  from  her  arms,  she  drew  the 
blanket  close:  "Not  yet.  I  knew  when  it  happened; 
I  did  all  I  could." 

He  asked  a  few  brief  questions  and  she  answered; 
then  turned  to  him  sharply : 

"If  you  had  come  sooner " 

"Who  can  annihilate  space?"  he  said.    "But  there 
122 


Folly 

was  nothing  else  to  do.  These  attacks  are  sometimes 
irresistible." 

"In  half  an  hour  or  less," — she  seemed  to  be  thinking 
aloud. 

"Less — much  less — often,"  he  said. 

They  heard  the  grating  of  a  key,  and  the  opening  and 
closing  of  a  door  below. 

"My  husband" — she  was  still  quiet.  "I  must  go 
tell  him." 

"Let  me" — he  began,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and 
rose  and  laid  the  child  in  its  cradle;  then  she  left  the 
doctor  with  the  sobbing  nurse,  and  went  downstairs 
alone. 

She  found  Christie  glancing  over  a  pile  of  letters  on 
his  desk. 

"Did  you  meet  Cobb?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  and  saw  what  had  happened. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.    "You  cannot  blame  me." 

He  would  have  taken  her  into  his  arms,  but  she  held 
him  off  with  hard  ringers:  "I  must  go  upstairs  again. 
They  will  tell  me  what  to  do.  Nobody  shall  touch  him 
but  myself." 

Not  a  single  moment  could  he  keep  her;  nor  had  she 
a  pitying  glance  for  his  grief. 


123 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  BREAK. 

SHE  did  not  shrink  from  all  there  was  to  do; 
and  when  it  was  finished,  sat,  neither  weeping  nor 
complaining,  with  her  arms  about  the  cradle.  She 
would  not  move  to  eat  or  sleep  until  her  husband 
came  and  fetched  her,  neither  speaking  nor  requiring 
speech,  but  insisting,  in  a  manner  that  left  no  room 
for  choice,  that  she  hold  to  the  ordinary  functions  of 
life. 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  not  troubling  her  with 
sympathy,  and  for  arranging  that  they  should  have 
none  of  the  pomps  and  paraphernalia  of  funerals. 
They  went  alone — they  two — and  he  let  her  hold  the 
child  in  her  arms  all  the  way. 

They  came  back  through  a  drizzling  rain  and  found 
Mrs.  Patrick  in  the  lower  hall. 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  her,"  Christie  confessed. 

Folly  looked  at  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  stranger, 
then  crossed  over  to  stare  into  the  blazing  logs. 

There  seemed  an  unnatural  stillness  in  the  house 
that  hushed  Mabel's  voice:  "Andrew,  I  have  been 

interfering  in  your  affairs.    One  of  the  maids  was  telling 

124 


Folly 

me  this  morning  that  those  Hunters  in  the  village  are  in 
trouble.  The  boy  has  sprained  his  ankle  in  a  trap — 
poaching,  I  suppose — and  the  old  people  are  helpless 
with  rheumatism  .  .  .  and  there's  no  one  to  earn  a 
penny.  ..." 

"I'll  ride  over  and  see  what  can  be  done,"  he  said, 
looking  at  his  wife. 

"And  then  you'll  come  up  and  tell  us  about  our 
poor  neighbours,"  said  Mab,  slipping  an  arm  through 
Folly's. 

The  afternoon  wore  away  in  rain  and  mist;  and 
Mabel,  her  fingers  busy  with  lace-work,  talked  on  and 
on,  telling  stories  of  suffering,  and  sacrifice,  and  help 
in  trouble;  and  contented  herself  with  monosyllables 
or  silent  rebuffs. 

Finally  she  tossed  her  braids  and  pattern  on  the 
table:  "This  must  come  to  an  end,  you  know." 

"It  has  come  to  an  end,"  said  Folly  quietly. 

"You  must  rouse  yourself." 

"Yes." 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  you  selfish." 

"  I  am  selfish.    I  always  was." 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  should  continue  to  be." 

Folly  shrugged. 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  are  not  the  only  one  in  the  world 
who  has  suffered.  For  heaven's  sake,  think  of  other 
people!  " 

Then  she  saw  that  she  had  blundered,  as  Folly  said: 

"I  am  thinking  of  one  other." 

125 


Folly 

"There — there — there" — Mab  spoke  impatiently — 
"I  always  put  my  foot  into  it.  But  I'll  be  blunt  now. 
You  should  be  thinking  of  one  other — and  that's  your 
husband." 

Folly  smiled:  "You  do  not  know  about  the  compact, 
you  see;  Andrew  does.  I  offered  to  go  with  Haldane — 
that  night  at  the  play.  He  would  not  have  me.  I  need 
not  tell  you  why.  Then  Andrew  came  for  me — you 
know  how;  and  I  said  that  if  baby  were  spared,  I 
should  hang  on  here;  if  not " 

Mrs.  Patrick  was  pale  as  she  seized  Folly's  hands: 
"You  were  mad.  You  cannot  reason  like  that.  It's 
the  twentieth  century." 

"If  not,"  continued  Folly,  "I  said  that  nothing  else 
should  keep  us  apart — if  he  needed  me  and  wanted 
me.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  say  Andrew  knows?"  Mabel  was  in- 
credulous. 

Folly  nodded. 

"And  what  does  he  think?" 

"He  never  said.    I  don't  read  his  thoughts." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  you  don't  know  what  you 
are  saying!  Have  you  considered  well?" 

"The  only  point  that  needs  consideration  now," 
answered  Folly,  "is  whether  Haldane  would  be  the 
better  for  my  going." 

"There,  you  see,  you  have  doubts  yourself,"  urged 
Mabel. 

"Perhaps,"   said   Folly,   and   added,  with   sudden 

126 


Folly 

energy:  "But  you  must  help  me  there.  What  do  you 
hear  from  Gregory?" 

Mabel  was  silent,  taken  aback  by  the  suddenness  of 
the  demand. 

"It  doesn't  matter,  if  you  won't  speak;  I  can  always 
go  to  Biarritz  myself." 

"They  are  no  longer  at  Biarritz,"  slipped  from 
Mabel. 

"Where  then?" 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  encourage  you  in  your  mad- 
ness?" 

"  It's  all  the  same.  I  shall  do  without  you.  But  you 
shall  tell  me  one  thing :  how  is  he  ?  " 

"You  hurt  me,  Folly — please,  my  wrists!  He  is 
much  the  same,  I  believe." 

"And  that  hope — that  hope  of  Gregory's  .  .  .?" 

"There  is  so  little  time,  you  see,"  said  Mabel  pity- 
ingly. 

"Ah,  that  is  it — so  little  time.  I  must  waste  none. 
And  you  won't  tell  me  where  he  is?  Surely,  Gregory 
can't  stay  away  much  longer;  and  then  he'll  need 
somebody.  ...  I  can  read  it  in  your  face:  Gregory 
talks  of  coming  home,  or  Haldane  won't  let  him  stop 
on  ...  and  he  will  be  alone.  ..." 

"Perhaps — "  began  Mabel. 

"I  was  deceived  at  first,"  Folly  interrupted.  "My 
pride,  I  suppose.  I  thought  he  had  changed.  .  .  . 
But  afterwards,  I  understood :  it  was  as  hard  for  him  as 
for  me  ...  I  shall  not  wait  now.  I  shall  go  at  once. 

I  shall  find  out  ...  I  can  at  least  be  there.    I  can 

127 


Folly 

watch  from  a  distance;  and  when  he  needs  me.  .  .  . 
He  will  need  me.  ..." 

"You  are  deliberately  cutting  yourself  off  from  the 
past  ?  "  said  Mabel. 

"From  you?"  asked  Folly  keenly. 

"No,  I  don't  count.  You  know  I  shall  always  be 
the  same;  but  people  ..." 

"People!"  was  the  scornful  echo.  "Mabel,  he  is 
dying,  and  I  am  here." 

"May  I  speak  to  Andrew?"  asked  Mrs.  Patrick 
suddenly. 

"If  you  like,"  said  Folly.  "He  knows  all  you  can 
say." 

Mabel  waited  no  longer,  but  went  down  to  the  study, 
where  she  found  Christie,  returned  from  his  errand, 
seemingly  idle.  At  least,  she  could  not  perceive  that 
he  had  been  working  or  reading. 

"I  arranged  what  I  could  for  those  people,"  he 
began;  but  paused,  perceiving  that  she  had  some 
definite  thing  to  say. 

"Do  you  know  her  latest  mad  plan?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"Well,  yes" — he  arranged  loose  sheets  of  paper  on 
his  desk — "I  suppose  so." 

"Surely  you  will  stop  her?"  she  cried,  in  a  breath. 

"What  good  would  that  be?"  he  demanded. 

"Her  name  and  yours" — said  Mabel  faintly. 

"Of  course.     Well,  I  don't  know  what  more  you 

would  have  me  do  ?    Lock  her  up  ?    Set  a  watch-dog  ? 

128 


Folly 

She  would  probably  escape  if  she  were  bent  on  it;  and 
then  the  scandal  would  be  worse.  However,  that's  not 
to  the  point.  My  attitude  isn't  the  common  one,  per- 
haps, but  it's  this :  what  isn't  mine  in  fact  I  won't  have 
in  form." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Christie  to  make.  Mabel 
was  astonished  and  almost  frightened  to  hear  that  he 
was  so  far  from  insisting  on  his  legal  claim. 

"And  is  there  no  way  out?"  she  asked  helplessly. 

"One  I  can  see,"  he  answered,  with  a  sombre  look. 

"And  that?" 

"Time  enough  to  talk  about  it  when  it's  come. 
Some  things  are  bettter  not  discussed  beforehand. 
When  there  are  two  men  in  such  a  case,  according  to 
our  modern  ideas  one  must  get  out." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  assure  you  that  it  isn't  important  at  present. 
If  it  comes  to  a  question  of  her  good  name  and 
mine,  I  shall  consider.  But  now — would  you  go  with 
her?" 

"  She  wouldn't  have  me,"  said  Mabel  forlornly. 

"You  will  try?" 

"Of  course.  But  where  you  have  failed,  what  can 
I  say  ?  And  yet  all  the  time,  while  I  know  she  is  wrong, 
and  I  try  to  reason  with  her " 

"In  'Paolo  and  Francesca,'"  said  he,  smiling 
faintly,  "  the  part  of  Giovanni  is  awkward  to  play." 

"You  wouldn't — you  wouldn't ?"  she  stam- 
mered. 

9  129 


Folly 

"That  method  seems  to  be  out  of  date.  I  have  my 
own." 

"You  wouldn't — you  couldn't  divorce  her?"  she 
persisted. 

He  looked  reproach:  "Trust  me.  I  shall  manage  it 
decently.  Will  you  ask  her  to  come  down  now  ?  " 

Folly  obeyed  at  once,  and  found  him  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  light. 

"As  to  money "  he  began  abruptly. 

"I  have  my  own  income,"  she  interrupted. 

"Further  than  that,  there  will  be  your  usual  allow- 
ance for  as  long" — he  was  in  some  doubt  how  to  con- 
clude his  sentence. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  want  money 
— I  need  it;  but  I  want  my  freedom  more." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  he  slowly,  "that  I  cannot  give  you 
that  altogether." 

"You — you  are  good" — she  tried  to  express  grati- 
tude. 

"Spare  me  that.  The  only  straight  thing  is  to 
let  you  go;  but  I'd  give  my  right  hand — "  he 
held  it  out  in  his  extreme  earnestness — "if  I  could 
make  you  see  your  mistake!  If  ever  you  want 
help " 

She  shook  her  head  in  proud  refusal. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better — better  clear  out  to-night,  and 
then  you  can  take  your  time." 

She  tried  to  control  her  trembling  as  she  said:  "You 

have  never  once  pleaded  for  yourself,  Andrew.    Don't 

130 


Folly 

think  I  did  not  notice — don't  think  me  utterly  without 
regard  for  you  and  your  name.  ..." 

"I  think  you'd  better  let  me  help  you  upstairs,"  he 
urged  gently. 

At  the  door  of  her  room  he  paused,  breathing  hard: 
"It's  good-bye,  I  suppose." 

"Andrew,  I  swear  to  you,  if  he  were  not  dying " 

"  Don't ! "  he  exclaimed  roughly.  "  I'm  only  human." 
And  without  kiss  or  caress  he  turned  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CASTING  OFF  THE  ROPES. 

MRS.  PATRICK  woke  the  following  day  with  a  violent 
headache,  wondering  whether  she  had  slept  a  single 
hour  during  the  night.  Nevertheless,  she  entered  the 
breakfast-room  at  the  usual  time,  and  was  amazed  to 
find  Folly  seated  at  the  little  bureau  in  which  she  kept 
her  household  accounts  and  other  business  matters. 
She  looked  round  with  a  faint  smile  as  Mabel  entered. 

"I  am  trying  to  set  my  house  in  order,"  she  said, 
writing  rapidly  as  she  spoke.  "Andrew  went  by  the 
ten  o'clock  train  last  night." 

Mrs.  Patrick  sat  down  by  the  fire;  and  as  the  maid 
was  bringing  in  the  breakfast,  she  made  no  further 
comment  than  a  low- voiced:  "And  have  you  been  to 
bed  at  all?" 

Folly  did  not  answer;  but  as  Mabel  continued  after 
that  in  pensive  silence,  said  presently:  "I  suppose  we 
must  eat."  She  stamped  half  a  dozen  envelopes: 
"There,  I  think  that  completes  everything." 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  asked  Mabel,  as  they 

took  their  places  at  the  table. 

132 


Folly 

"Getting  ready,"  answered  Folly,  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise. 

"You  are  going,  then?"  Mabel  groaned. 

"Did  you  ever  doubt  it?" 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you — what  can  I?" 

"Fish  or  bacon?"  asked  Folly. 

Then  Mabel  hid  her  face,  laughing  and  crying  to- 
gether. 

"Don't  be  hysterical,"  said  Folly.  "We're  always 
having  to  choose,  you  know.  You  won't?  Well,  you 
shall  have  fish;  it's  good  for  the  nervous  system." 

Mabel  pushed  away  her  plate:  "It  isn't  too  late  yet, 
Folly." 

"Much,"  was  the  calm  answer.  "Mrs.  Brent  can 
take  charge  perfectly  well  until  Andrew  decides  what 
he  wants  to  do  with  the  house."  She  rose  and  returned 
to  the  fire. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  implored  Mabel,  "that  you 
are  going  to  work  all  morning  on  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
scrap  of  toast?" 

"It's  enough,"  answered  Folly.  "Besides,  I've  done 
most  of  my  work.  I'm  just  thinking  over  what  I  may 
have  omitted." 

"For  Andrew's  comfort?"  asked  Mabel  ironically. 

"To  be  sure.  I  needn't  add  the  little  worries 
to  the  big."  She  counted  off  on  her  fingers,  ending: 
"And  the  letter  to  mater.  Do  you  know,  Mab,  I 
remembered  this  morning  that  I  am  just  a  common 
thief." 

133 


Folly 

Accustomed  to  Folly's  forms  of  speech,  Mabel  waited 
without  comment. 

"It's  quite  true.  Last  month  I  stole  thirty  pounds 
from  Andrew's  mother,  and  got  fifty  pounds  more 
under — well,  I  suppose  they  call  it — false  pretences. 
It  wasn't  kleptomania,  either — just  insanity.  But  last 
night,  when  I  was  thinking  more  sanely,  I  decided  that 
I  wouldn't  keep  it  after  all.  There  couldn't  be  any  virtue 
in  it,  got  that  way.  I'll  use  my  own  and  no  more.  So 
I'm  returning  it  this  morning  with  a  letter.  Poor  little 
materkin!  But  it  shows  what  I  might  come  to  yet." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mabel.  "I  lay  awake  nearly 
all  night,  thinking  about  your  affairs?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  answered  Folly,  "because  you  can't 
mend  them.  What  time  do  you  propose  going  up  to 
town?" 

"I  don't  know" — Mrs.  Patrick  brushed  aside  the 
question.  "  But,  Folly,  you  wouldn't  greatly  mind  my 
going  with  you  to  Biarritz,  would  you?  You  could 
always  shake  me  off  at  any  time " 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  mused  Folly.  "But  I  am 
quite  clear  that  it  is  better  for  me  in  every  way  to  be 
alone." 

"I  want  to  go,"  insisted  Mabel. 

"No"— Folly  stood  at  bay. 

Mabel  was  silent,  but  looked  decision  unutterable. 

"I  don't  want  you,  Mab,"  said  Folly  gently,  "and 
what's  more,  I  won't  have  you.  And  people  will 

say " 

134 


Folly 

"Do  you  think  that  you  alone  can  brave  public 
opinion?"  protested  Mab. 

"They  will  say  that  you  are  running  after — you  know 
whom." 

The  tears  rose  to  Mabel's  eyes.  "I  don't  care,"  she 
insisted  stoutly. 

"But  you  do.  And  what  will  he  think  himself? 
Anyway,  I  don't  know  what's  to  happen,  and  I  won't 
have  you  in  the  mix-up — so  there  you  are!" 

Mrs.  Patrick  seized  Folly's  cold  fingers  in  one  last 
entreaty:  "You  have  just  told  me  you  repented  about 
the  money,  and  how  will  it  be  about  the  greater  sin  ?  " 

"It  wasn't  repentance,"  answered  Folly  wearily,  "it 
was  superstition.  I  hadn't  had  time  to  think  about  it 
before.  And  I'm  tired  of  arguments.  Oh,  we  have 
talked,  Andrew  and  I." 

Mabel's  spirit  was  suddenly  aflame:  "You  should 
have  had  a  brute  of  a  husband  to  beat  you  into  sub- 
mission!" 

"It  would  have  been  so  easy,  then,"  was  the  unex- 
pected answer.  "It  is  Andrew's  very  goodness  that 
scourges  me.  Do  you  suppose  I  have  not  considered 
every  inch  of  his  position  as  well  as  my  own?  And 
when  I  have  lost  half  the  time  in  holding  to  my  lawful 
duty,  can  you  say  it  is  not  necessity  that  drives  me? 
Ah,  if  you  could  make  me  see  with  other  eyes,  you 
would  have  the  power  of  God  himself!" 

"And  that's  true,"  said  Mabel  sorrowfully,  as  they 
parted. 

135 


Folly 

They  met  again  at  luncheon  and  made  a  show  of 
eating  and  talking,  but  accomplished  little  of  either. 
Any  attempt  on  Mabel's  part  to  hark  back  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  morning  was  met  by  an  impenetrable  barrier 
of  silence. 

As  they  left  the  table  Mrs.  Patrick  said:  "I  have 
decided  upon  the  three  o'clock  train." 

"Certainly,"  said  Folly,  "I  will  order  the  carriage. 
And  afterward,s  Barker  can  come  back  for  me." 

"You  are  going ?" 

"At  four-fifteen.  I  can't  be  ready  before.  You 
won't  mind  going  up  alone?" 

"You'll  come  to  me  in  town?" 

"Thank  you,  dear.  I  shall  be  crossing  to-night,  I 
hope." 

As  they  said  farewell,  Mabel  whispered:  "You  can 
never  get  rid  of  me,  you  know." 

And  Folly:  " Bless  you,  dear!" 

She  waited  until  the  carriage  turned  the  curve,  then 
went  upstairs  into  the  empty  nursery. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  she  came  out,  with 
the  look  of  one  who  had  passed  through  the  deepest 
waters  and,  though  panting  still  from  the  struggle, 
hopes  and  strains  toward  the  land. 

The  carriage  had  been  waiting  some  time,  the  lug- 
gage strapped  on,  and  Barker  was  consulting  his 
watch  and  growing  uneasy,  when  she  came  down  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  in  the  hall,  went  into  her 

husband's  study. 

136 


Folly 

Already  it  had  a  despoiled  look :  the  desk  was  locked, 
the  blinds  were  down,  and  there  was  an  indescribable 
bareness  as  if  some  important  thing  were  missing.  So 
strong  was  this  feeling  upon  her  that  she  made  a  definite 
search  to  discover  what  was  gone;  and  after  a  time 
remembered  that  it  was  numerous  photographs  of  her- 
self, at  all  ages  and  in  all  guises,  together  with  the 
large  carbon  of  herself  and  baby,  the  only  one  that  she 
had  ever  had  taken.  But  whether  he  had  carried  them 
with  him,  or  locked  them  away  out  of  sight,  she  could 
not  divine. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  new  life,  she  stood  and  looked 
back  upon  the  old;  in  the  presence  of  the  untried,  she 
remembered  much  that  had  been  sweet  in  the  ways 
that  she  was  leaving. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  I  am  sorry!"  she  thought,  with  a 
pang.  "And  I  never  told  him." 

All  in  a  moment  she  grew  weak  and  feared  that  she 
could  not  go,  so  summoned  her  failing  strength  and 
almost  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Once  in  the  carriage,  she  did  not  look  back;  and 
when  she  arrived  at  the  station,  just  as  the  train  stopped, 
with  scarcely  a  second  to  spare,  her  remorse  gave  way 
to  the  strong  exultation  of  one  who,  whether  for  right 
or  wrong,  for  blessing  or  woe,  has  cast  off  the  ropes  and 
entered  upon  a  new  voyage. 


137 


BOOK  II. 
THE   CITY  OF  THORNS. 


'May  Love,  by  whom  alone  we  live, 

Fullness  grant  of  grace ; 
One  fleeting  hour  may  he  give, 
Ere  Death  shall  win  the  race." 

J.  HALDANE  GORE,  after  Holbein. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DREAMS. 

ON  a  low  round  hill  between  the  headland  of  Higuer 
and  the  broad  sandy  plage  lies  the  walled  town  of 
Espinal — the  grim  half-empty  shell  of  an  ancient  Span- 
ish city,  decaying  among  its  maize  fields.  Of  its  origin 
history  knows  no  word;  but  legend  tells  how  a  poor 
shepherdess,  cursed  with  an  incurable  disease,  was  one 
day  watching  her  flock  high  above  the  sea,  when  sud- 
denly against  the  sky  she  beheld  a  lady  all  shining  with 
gold,  her  feet  whiter  than  the  blossoms  of  a  thorn-tree 
on  which  they  rested.  As  the  shepherdess  knelt,  know- 
ing well  that  this  could  be  only  the  Mother  of  God,  the 
Lady  stooped  to  pluck  a  spray  of  flowers,  let  it  fall  at 
the  poor  woman's  feet,  and  said  smiling:  "Remember 
me  by  this."  And  straightway  she  was  gone.  But 
where  the  thorn  blossom  had  dropped  among  dry 
heather  and  stinging  gorse,  now  it  floated  in  a  tiny 
spring  that  bubbled  from  the  earth,  and  grew  ever 
larger  as  it  welled.  And  when  the  shepherdess  bent  in 
all  reverence  to  gather  up  the  flower-spray,  the  moment 
that  her  hand  touched  the  water  she  knew  that  she 

was  healed.    So  she  took  the  holy  thing  in  her  kerchief, 

141 


Folly 

daring  not  to  lay  finger  upon  it,  and  carried  it  to  her 
priest  and  told  him  her  tale. 

In  witness  whereof  you  have  to-day  the  chapel  and 
shrine  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Thorn-tree,  together  with 
the  sisterhood  that  still  tends  the  unwithered  sacred 
spray  in  its  golden  reliquary,  and  the  manifold  de- 
scendants of  the  sacred  tree  that  crowd  the  cloister,  and 
the  sacred  spring  that  still  bubbles  in  the  crypt.  And 
again,  you  have  the  name  itself — Espinal,  place  of 
thorns — in  later  days  bestowed  upon  the  valley-town 
that  grew  up  and  blossomed  and  died  in  the  cult  of  this 
wonder-working  shrine. 

And  still  the  miracle  goes  on  from  day  to  day,  from 
year  to  year;  and  the  tale  of  those  that  are  healed  covers 
the  chapel  walls  with  golden  letters.  Every  April,  from 
all  the  country  round,  there  is  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
mountain-church  of  Espinal;  and  after,  until  the  year 
swings  back  in  its  circle,  at  the  harvesting  or  by  the 
fireside,  the  peasants  tell  of  the  fresh  cures  that  are 
wrought. 

At  other  seasons,  the  town  is  as  dead  as  its  ancient 
monarch,  Sancho  Clawfoot,  who  sleeps  in  the  black 
fort  that  crowns  the  hill.  The  emblazoned  gateways 
are  undefended  and  half  broken  away,  and  the  moat 
is  choked  with  Indian  corn.  The  cathedral,  gilded 
within  by  the  piety  of  those  that  have  built  them  stately 
tombs  there,  and  without  by  the  golden- fingered  sun, 
is  crumbling  away,  stone  by  stone.  The  high  shuttered 

houses,  with  their  carven  roofs  and  balconies  overhung 

142 


Folly 

with  flowers,  seem  always  silent  and  empty;  and  few 
are  they  that  pass  up  and  down  the  mouldering  stair- 
ways. It  is  nearly  three  hundred  years  since,  in  a 
petty  war,  she  perished  whose  battlements  had  daunted 
the  Romans,  and  defied  the  Goths,  and  turned  aside 
the  Moors;  and  she  will  never  wake  again  among  the 
cities  of  the  world.  She  has  had  her  Cid,  not  sung  like 
him  of  Burgos;  and  in  her  time  she  has  sent  flotillas  to 
the  Indies;  and  now  she  boasts  by  way  of  citizens  a 
handful  of  fisherman  that  net  the  bay  at  her  feet,  and 
a  few  nail-workers  and  makers  of  hemp-soled  alpar- 
gatas,  who  toil  a  little,  and  smoke  much,  and  sing  now 
and  then,  as  they  hammer  and  bind  along  her  shady 
streets.  One  of  the  world's  retreats  is  Espinal,  un- 
written, unsung,  unvisited. 

It  was  by  the  idlest  concatenation  of  events  that 
Gregory  and  his  patient  found  themelves  in  the  "  City 
of  Thorns."  Gore  had  all  at  once  sickened  of  Biarritz 
and  threatened  a  return  to  England;  and  Gregory,  in  a 
maze  of  futile  experiments,  worried,  hopeless,  but  teased 
onward  by  an  indomitable  will,  had  plucked  up  cheer 
to  say:  "Let's  drop  everything  for  a  week  or  two,  and 
have  a  look  over  the  Border." 

So  they  had  journeyed  idly  from  one  wayside  station 
to  another,  till  they  came  to  Erro,  where  there  is  noth- 
ing but  a  miserable  inn  and  a  neglected  unlovely 
church.  Undoubtedly  they  would  have  gone  farther, 
had  not  Gore  noticed  a  dusty  diligence,  empty  yet 

143 


Folly 

waiting  at  the  door  of  the  jonda,  as  if  it  hoped  to  pick 
up  a  passenger  or  two.  In  the  spirit  of  adventure,  they 
essayed  it;  and  without  asking  its  destination,  jogged 
comfortably  along  with  the  driver,  now  dropping  a 
limp  mail-bag,  now  picking  up  a  packet  of  medicine, 
or,  it  might  be,  a  country-girl  with  a  basketful  of  fowls 
on  her  head,  or  a  priest  too  fat  to  walk  between  the 
confines  of  his  parish.  After  many  kilometres,  they 
judged,  of  easy  mule-work,  they  alighted  on  the  sandy 
bank  of  a  river  that  emptied  into  the  sea  before  their 
eyes;  and  upon  their  demand  what  place  was  this, 
they  were  seized  by  a  brawny  Basque  ferryman,  and 
dragged  to  the  corner  of  his  hut,  the  while  he  pointed 
to  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  great  mountain  and  a 
city  on  a  dome-like  hill  in  its  shadow,  ejaculating, 
"Higuer — Espinal" — upon  which,  at  that  time,  they 
were  none  the  wiser.  Even  more,  he  raised  a  forefinger 
toward  the  spire  that  flung  itself  into  the  sky  far  above 
them,  and  murmured,  "Nuestra  Senora  de  las  Es- 
pinas,"  and  bared  his  head,  with  the  sign  of  the  Cross, 
making  a  prayer. 

They  were  rowed  over,  in  and  out  among  the  shal- 
lows of  the  tidal  stream,  and  when  they  had  climbed 
the  steep  Calle  Marina,  through  the  war-beaten  gate, 
and  had  set  eyes  upon  the  empty  winding  street  above, 
with  its  double  burden  of  many- coloured  houses,  they 
said  to  each  other  that  this  was  the  quiet  place  they  had 
been  looking  for,  all  their  lives. 

Still  in  the  spirit  of  adventure,  they  had  established 
144 


Folly 

themselves  in  a  little  fonda,  all  stucco  and  carvings 
and  balconies  outside;  and  within,  clean  and  bare  and 
silent  in  that  at  this  season  there  were  no  other  guests 
than  themselves. 

From  their  windows  they  could  watch  the  misty  sun 
climb  out  of  the  sea  and  burn  into  a  white  radiance  that 
streamed  down  upon  the  huddle  of  red  roofs  over- 
topped by  the  black  fort  and  the  golden-domed  cathe- 
dral; they  could  watch  it  sink  behind  the  ridge  of  pur- 
ple mountain  with  its  sky-piercing  spire. 

Through  sunny  lazy  days,  all  too  short,  they  wan- 
dered between  the  cliff-like  houses,  where  the  streets 
were  often  given  over  to  rooting  pigs  or  goats  browsing 
on  the  grass  between  the  cobbles.  Very  soon  they 
began  to  exchange  greetings  with  the  children,  and  to 
talk  with  the  elders,  feeble  relics  of  an  old  humanity 
that  has  lingered  on  in  this  one  spot  for  perhaps  two 
thousand  years  and  more.  They  idled  on  the  walls, 
and  worked  out  the  ancient  plan  of  the  city,  and  the 
engineering  devices  by  which  it  was  at  length  over- 
thrown. More  than  once  they  sailed  out  with  the  fish- 
ermen; and  often  they  trod  the  stony  foot-paths  among 
the  Basque  farms  and  orchards,  set  out  with  heavy- 
timbered  gay-painted,  galleried  homesteads,  gabled 
unevenly,  proudly  carved  with  name  and  date  and  the 
arms  of  the  valley,  hung  out  above  with  great  bunches 
of  dried  herbs  that  sweetened  all  the  air,  and  tenanted 
below  by  the  beasts  of  the  field. 

In  these  quiet  days  they  forgot  time.    Whether  on  the 
10  145 


Folly 

sands,  or  high  on  the  hill,  or  within  the  barbaric 
church,  or  on  the  bench  at  the  door  of  the  jonda, 
Gregory  pondered  over  the  various  aspects  of  his  prob- 
lem, and  strove  to  gather  up  his  scattered  results  into  a 
theory  that  should  further  his  intention;  while  Gore 
mused  upon  the  beauty  that  informed  the  scene,  and 
sometimes  had  a  dim  sense  that  his  singing-gift  might 
return. 

But  the  change  came  with  the  swiftness  of  tragedy, 
on  a  day  when  the  fine  weather  broke  in  a  gust  of 
blinding  rain. 

Gregory  came  in  from  the  post  and  found  Gore 
staring  at  the  ragged  sodden  garden. 

"Still  at  your  beloved  tamarisks?"  said  he,  feigning 
good  cheer. 

But  Gore  was  alert  with:  "Any  letters?" 

"One  for  me,  and  some  papers.  That's  all  the  post 
office  saw  fit  to  hand  over." 

They  sat  down  to  luncheon  in  silence.  Gore  twid- 
dled his  spoon,  without  attempting  to  eat. 

"Look  here,"  said  Gregory  suddenly,  "this  won't 
do.  We've  wasted  enough  time.  I  think  we'll  go  to 
Paris.  I've  a  new  notion — that  you  might  consult 
Brousseau." 

"Consult  the  devil!"  said  Gore  hotly.  "You've  got 
to  get  back  to  London,  as  I've  said  fifty  times  already. 
When  a  man  can't  take  a  hint  ..." 

"Hints?"  said  Gregory.    "It's  my  business  now  to 

see  that  you  take  your  beef-tea." 

146 


Folly 

"Spoon-meat,"  grumbled  Gore.  "The  next  stage 
will  be  a  feeding-bottle.  If  I've  got  to  die,  star- 
vation is  better  than  the  alternative.  Pass  the 
oranges,  will  you  ?  With  them  I  can  still  pretend  to 
be  a  man." 

There  was  another  gloomy  silence,  during  which 
Gore  played  with  his  orange,  then  he  said  with  a 
laugh:  "What  particular  demon  of  the  legion  is  it  that 
tempts  a  man  to  hope  for  the  impossible  ?  " 

Evidently  Gregory  read  a  particular  meaning  into 
these  words  for  he  responded:  "But  why  should  she 
write?" 

"Why,  indeed?" — Gore  was  ironic. 

Gregory  hesitated:  "I  have  a  piece  of  news  for  you. 
My  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Patrick.  ..." 

"  I  knew  it.    Is  the  wooing  on  or  off  ?" 

"I  am  not  aware  of  any  wooing,"  answered  Gregory 
stiffly.  "The  news  is — they  have  lost  their  child." 

Gore  was  silent  a  long  time  before  he  said,  as  if 
thinking  aloud,  "What  will  she  do  now?"  and  followed 
it  up  with  a  quick,  "  By  God,  man,  if  I  were  half  alive, 
I'd  go  back  yet!" 

"You  would,  would  you?"  said  Gregory  drily. 
"Then  it's  a  good  thing  you're  not." 

"You  don't  know  ..." 

"I  know  there's  been  a  hell  of  a  muddle,  and  you'd 
make  it  worse  if  you  could." 

"  Don't  jump  on  a  man  that's  down." 

"I'm  not  jumping;  but  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
147 


Folly 

back  into  that  tangle.  You  do  the  right  thing 
for  once  in  your  life — the  sort  of  thing  any  decent  chap 
would  do — and  then  when  you've  got  safely  away, 
you  want  to  go  back  and  upset  the  whole  business." 

"  Don't  you  worry.  I'm  not  going  back.  So  let  me 
have  my  howl  in  peace." 

Gregory  shrugged:  "I  don't  mind.  But  I'm  going 
back — to  Biarritz  anyway — and  then  very  likely  to 
Paris." 

"Same  old  thing?"  asked  Gore. 

Gregory  nodded :  "  I've  a  new  idea.  ..." 

"Oh,  drop  it ;  you're  not  the  hundredth  man.  Go  back 
to  your  surgery.  There's  something  indecent  about 
the  way  you're  trying  to  stretch  out  my  existence." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  this  morning?"  asked 
Gregory,  to  turn  the  subject. 

"Working — six  lines  or  so.  Pater's  allowance, 
wasn't  it?  But  I'm  not  proud  of  them.  Going  to  be 
in  this  afternoon?  Then  I'll  retreat.  I  don't  want  to 
get  on  your  nerves." 

"Turn  it  the  other  way  about,"  said  Gregory, 
unoffended. 

He  began  to  arrange  his  pamphlets  and  papers,  and 
Gore  went  upstairs  to  a  certain  shabby  green  arm- 
chair in  which  he  often  found  comfort.  It  was  adapted 
by  long  experience  to  a  lounging  body;  and  he  had 
rendered  it  more  companionable  by  a  series  of  friendly 
and  suggestive  holes  burnt  by  the  ashes  of  countless 

cigarettes.    Here  he  fell  to  smoking  idly  and  watching 

148 


Folly 

the  grey  sea  pour  its  tides  along  the  sands;  but  soon 
perceived  that  he  was  vaguely  disturbed  by  the  absence 
of  the  woman  across  the  way. 

His  room  had  two  windows,  one  overlooking  the 
roofs  below  on  the  hill,  the  top  of  the  city  wall,  the 
beach  and  the  bay;  the  other  facing  a  narrow  cross 
street  and  a  tall  house  let  out  in  tenements.  In  the 
room  on  a  level  with  his,  he  had  been  wont  to  study  his 
neighbour,  as  an  excuse  for  not  working.  On  this  day, 
he  was  displeased  to  find  that  her  shutters  were  closed; 
perhaps  she  too  was  cold  and  desolate,  and  had  gone 
with  others  of  her  kind  to  huddle  over  a  brazier  of 
charcoal. 

She  reminded  him  vaguely  of  Folly,  this  young 
Basque  woman,  with  her  wavy  tawny  hair.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  a  seamstress,  living  quite  alone  with  her 
baby.  From  Monday  to  Saturday  she  bent  over  her 
machine;  but  on  Sunday  she  went  soberly  to  mass  in 
the  morning,  leaving  the  child  with  a  neighbour;  and 
in  the  afternoon  she  and  the  baby  together  blossomed 
like  flowers  on  her  little  balcony. 

At  one  time  or  another,  Gore  had  seen  most  of  her 
little  domestic  operations.  They  were  done  frankly,  in 
the  full  light  of  day.  She  had  no  scruples  against  comb- 
ing her  beautiful  hair  before  a  looking-glass  by  the 
window;  and  then  she  was  like  Titian's  "Laura 
Dianti,"  heavier  of  build,  more  exuberant  than  Folly, 
he  remembered.  .  .  .  Often  he  would  hear  her  chir- 
ruping to  the  baby  to  keep  it  quiet,  as  she  moved  about 

149 


Polly 

getting  her  breakfast ;  and  sometimes  she  sang  it  lulla- 
bies in  a  strange  soft  tongue  of  which  he  understood 
no  word,  to  plaintive  tunes  that  made  the  body  throb 
and  thrill  with  the  longing  to  dance. 

Sometimes  she  leaned  far  from  her  balcony,  perhaps 
aware  of  his  watching  presence ;  and  then  he  could  see 
that  she  was  very  different  from  Folly,  with  full  rosy 
lips  that  might  be  sweet,  but  were  not  over-sensitive, 
or  prone  to  forbid. 

She  always  ate  her  breakfast  by  the  window,  dipping 
her  hard  roll  into  a  bowl  of  chocolate.  He  may  have 
imagined  that  the  smell  of  it  drifted  to  him  across  the 
street,  but  he  was  very  sure  in  his  own  mind  that  it  was 
not  coffee  she  drank.  Sometimes,  as  she  sat  munching, 
she  had  her  baby  across  her  knees;  and  the  picture  of 
the  two  of  them  against  the  dim  background  of  the 
room  made  him  homesick  with  longing  for  a  life  that 
he  should  never  know.  Sometimes,  when  apparently 
for  no  reason  at  all,  she  smiled  out  into  the  sunshine, 
with  a  swift  sparkle  of  eyes  and  teeth,  he  could  have 
cried  out  to  her:  "Come  over,  Folly!" 

He  often  wondered  who  the  man  was;  she  seemed 
so  absolutely  alone.  Of  a  Sunday  evening  now  and 
then,  she  would  bring  out  writing  materials  to  the 
window,  and  purse  her  lips  over  a  long-enduring  letter. 
And  even  when  the  pen  spared  her  blots,  there  were 
times  when  her  left  hand  was  not  quick  enough  to  wipe 
away  the  tears,  so  that  her  page  was  rarely  other  than 

ink-splashed,  he  was  sure.  .  .  .  Was  the  man  a  sailor, 

150 


Folly 

he  wondered,  and  would  he  come  back  some  day  to 
make  her  happy  ?  It  would  be  a  different  life- tale  then 
from  his  own  and  Folly's.  .  .  . 

To-day  he  missed  her — indeed,  he  found  that  he 
could  not  work  without  seeing  her  busy  and  happy  over 
the  way;  she  had  become  in  some  curious  manner  his 
only  inspiration. 

"Where's  the  bit  I  was  doing  this  morning?" — he 
rummaged  among  the  loose  sheets  in  his  portfolio.  "I 
must  have  torn  it  up  by  mistake — with  the  other  stuff — 
no,  here  it  is,"  He  began  to  read: 

"A  little  church  where  village  feet  that  press 
The  vintage,  meek  the  way  of  prayer  have  trod, 
And  beaten  out  the  name  and  lineage 
Of  him  whose  crest  ..." 

' '  Smells  of  decay  already, ' '  he  muttered.  ' '  B  etter  cut 
it  short.  Suppose  I  have  a  fancy  for  messing  with  such 
themes,  what's  the  good  of  them  to  the  living?  I'm 
outside  the  garden,  ready  for  the  unknown  road ;  they're 
still  within,  among  the  flowers  and  snakes,  thanking 
God  that  the  call  is  not  for  them  yet.  If  I  write  at  all, 
I  ought  to  try  to  help  them  to  live,  not  to  die — that 
comes  without  learning. 

"Posterity?  I  wonder  what  put  into  my  head  that 
old  Viking  sentry  who  scratched  a  picture  of  himself 
and  his  horse  on  a  stone,  and  wrote:  'So-and-so  kept 
watch  here.'  And  I  who  know  the  tale  have  forgotten 


Folly 

the  name.  That  was  a  little  thousand  years  ago.  And 
in  ten  thousand?  .  .  .  There's  nothing  washes  out  so 
fast  as  printer's  ink.  But  for  the  present  even,  have  I 
got  anything  that  needs  to  be  told  ? 

" '  The  builder  with  his  trowel  wrought  a  day ' — which 
is  the  very  point.  To  the  rubbish  heap,  my  friend. 

"'Thou  errant  lad' — but  who  cares  for  an  old 
monk's  scrawl  on  a  musty  manuscript?  Away,  'thou 
little  piping  boy!' 

" '  Oh,  it's  I  that  stray  along  the  windy  moorland 
road'  .  .  .  there  are  banshees  enough  for  All  Souls' 
Eve. 

'  That  winter's  night 
When  hawthorn  white 
Bloweth  as  in  May, 
God's  self  once  dight 
His  streaming  bright 
Lanthorn  for  our  way. ' 

"  Rather  old-fashioned  and  out  of  date  that.  Here 
goes;  they'll  all  come  out  papier  mache'  dolls  one  day, 
or  something  equally  delightful  and  useful.  ...  If  a 
man  can't  be  a  great  poet,  he  has  no  business  to  be  a 
poet  at  all.  The  little  I  had  to  say,  I've  said,  and  it 
will  be  forgotten  soon,  as  it  deserves  to  be.  And  now 
that  we've  cleared  the  board,  it  remains  only  to  write 
no  others.  What  can  a  half-man  do  with  himself  but 
get  out  of  the  way  as  fast  and  as  decently  as  he  can  ? 

f  l  Now  as  for  Greg — he's  got  to  go  home  next  week. 
152 


Folly 

The  little  game  he  has  been  playing  is  a  dead  loss  all 
round.  I  believe  he  only  keeps  it  up  for  appearance's 
sake.  He  must  get  back  to  his  Mrs.  Patrick;  and  I 
shall  make  shift  where  I  am.  What's  the  difference  ?  I 
have  arranged  everything.  Ah,  if  she  were  here.  ..." 

He  turned  aside  from  the  perilous  sweetness  of  that 
thought,  and  scribbled  a  while :  random  verses,  phrases, 
scraps  of  thought — blurred,  distorted.  At  last  he  gave 
up  the  attempt,  and  tossing  his  fifth  cigarette,  scarcely 
begun,  through  the  window,  to  rejoice  the  goatherd 
then  piping  below  with  his  flock,  he  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  and  gave  himself  over  to  the  host  of 
forbidden  dreams  that  came  thronging. 

He  heard  Gregory's  voice  below,  and  wondered  idly 
who  was  his  visitor.  Perhaps,  after  all,  if  by  some  mira- 
cle it  was  Folly — Folly  come  to  take  the  chain  of  his 
days  into  her  strong  white  hands,  and  to.  weave  them 
into  a  web  of  joy — Folly,  fled  from  hcftne  and  duty  at 
the  call  of  his  love — Folly  come  to  the  City  of  Thorns. 

He  deluded  himself  into  thinking  that  it  was  a 
woman's  voice  that  he  heard — hers;  but  presently  sank 
back  in  his  chair,  mumbling:  "Dreams — dreams." 

Soon  the  vision  returned,  with  teasing  lips  and  allur- 
ing eyebrows.  She  called  him  foolish  for  wanting  her, 
she  laughed  and  said  she  would  not  stay;  and  with  the 
very  speaking,  she  cuddled  on  his  arm-chair,  whisper- 
ing: "I  don't  love  you  one  little  bit;  but  I've  come  to 
torment  you  as  long  as — as  long  as  ..." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  staring  about  the  room.  The 
153 


Folly 

words  had  been  so  plain — so  plain:  "Tell  him  I  am 
here." 

He  tried  to  speak — to  call  to  Gregory;  but  his  voice 
stuck  in  his  throat.  "Like  everything  else,  damn 
it ! "  he  cursed. 

As  soon  as  he  had  reasoned  himself  into  a  state  of 
quiescence,  back  she  came,  sweeter  than  before — and 
kissed  him.  .  .  .  That  voice  again — intolerable!  It 
sounded  like  a  smothered  cry,  and  he  could  distin- 
guish no  words;  but  it  was  so  real  that  he  seemed  to 
feel  its  cadence  lingering  in  the  air  after  it  had  ceased. 

He  listened,  every  nerve  on  the  strain;  but  aside 
from  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  door  below,  the 
house  was  absolutely  still. 

Before  he  had  recovered  his  train  of  dreams,  Gregory 
came  hastily  up  the  stairs. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  asked,  reading  suspicion  and 
even  a  strange  conviction  in  Gore's  eyes. 

"She  is— here?" 

"No."    But  his  face  betrayed  the  truth. 

"  She  has  been." 

"  She  has  gone  away." 

Gore  started  to  his  feet  and  would  have  left  the  room 
without  a  word;  but  Gregory  caught  and  held  him  in 
his  arms. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  he  quietly.  "Hear  what  I 
have  to  say  first." 


154 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

REALITY. 

GREGORY  was  not  aware  of  any  feeling  of  surprise 
when  the  pale  narrow-eyed  woman  whom  the  Basque 
servant  showed  into  the  sitting-room  announced  her- 
self as  Mrs.  Christie,  and  asked  to  see  Gore.  He  was 
conscious  of  thinking  only  that  the  ferryman  was  late; 
or  else  that  she  had  had  a  long  search  for  them,  which 
in  a  place  where  there  were  only  two  Englishmen  was 
almost  incredible,  if  she  knew  enough  Spanish  to  ask  a 
question  or  two;  or  it  might  be  that  she  had  had  the 
grace  to  hesitate  before  she  entered  their  door. 

"He  is  upstairs,"  he  answered,  pushing  forward  a 
chair.  "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"Is  he  much  worse?"  she  asked.  Her  appearance 
was  so  obscured  by  her  long  travelling  cloak  and  veil 
that  only  from  her  voice  could  he  judge  of  the  charm 
that  had  drawn  his  friend's  mind  from  its  pivotal 
centre. 

He  shrugged. 

"I  came  from  England  to  find  out."  As  Gregory 
said  nothing,  she  added:  "I  may  see  him  now?" 

155 


Folly 

"In  a  moment" — he  was  striving  to  gain  time. 
"May  I  ask  how  you  found  us?" 

"Easy  enough" — she  smiled  faintly.  "I  got  the 
Biarritz  address  to  which  letters  were  forwarded;  and 
there,  they  directed  me  further.  You  have  not  an- 
swered my  questions." 

"As  to  seeing  him" — Gregory  flushed — "I  cannot 
forbid  that  at  present — not  even  as  his  physician. 
But  as  his  friend,  may  I  ask  you — without  impertinence 
— whether  you  quite  realize  the  state  of  affairs?" 

"I  realize  that  he  is  very  ill,"  said  she.  "And  you 
have  told  me  nothing  more." 

"You  would  not  observe  much  change;  but  the  dis- 
ease has  progressed.  A  crisis  is  possible  almost  any 
day;  but  yet — under  the  best  conditions — it  may  be 
staved  off  for  a  considerable  time." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'the  best  conditions'?"  she 
demanded. 

"Perfect  quiet — peace  of  mind — proper  care" — he 
was  beginning;  but  seeing  the  light  in  her  face,  gave 
his  sentence  a  rough  turn:  "Every  woman  jthinks  she 
can  supply  those,  no  doubt." 

"And  is  she  wrong?"  she  asked,  in  her  thrilling 
voice. 

"To  be  candid" — he  frowned  upon  her — "I  find 
myself  in  a  most  awkward,  not  to  say  embarrassing 
position." 

"It  need  not  embarrass  you,"  she  answered  coolly. 

"You  have  only  to  take  me  as  I  come." 

156 


Folly 

"You  don't  understand" — his  tone  softened  a  little 
in  spite  of  himself.  "I  mean,  as  to  my  own  course  of 
action." 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  waited. 

"As  his  physician,  I  believe  in  telling  you  plain 
facts,  if  you  demand  them;  as  his  friend,  I  am  not  clear 
where  my  duty  lies." 

"Then  I  should  think  you'd  better  speak  as  the  phy- 
sician. Have  you  any  hope  of  a  cure  ?" 

"None."  He  met  her  eyes  squarely,  and  she  did  not 
falter. 

"You  thought  once " 

"  Ah,  yes,  and  I  still  think  it  may  be  done.  I  may  even 
be  on  the  right  track.  But  not  in  the  time — not  in  the 
time" — he  concluded  rather  to  himself,  as  if  forgetting 
her  presence. 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  with  bowed  head,  then 
looked  up  bravely:  "But  if  that  is  true,  I  have  no  time 
to  lose." 

"What  do  you  think  you  could  do  for  him?"  asked 
Gregory  bluntly,  studying  her  with  frank  curiosity. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  have  not  asked  myself  that 
question  hundreds  of  times?"  She  caught  her  breath, 
and  turned  upon  him:  "What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  probably  you  could  hasten  his  death." 
There  was  stern  condemnation  in  Gregory's  voice. 

"How?"  she  would  know. 

"Put  the  case,"  he  continued  more  gently.  "When 
a  man  is  ill,  the  very  physical  changes  that  precede  the 

157 


Folly 

end  usually  cut  him  loose  from  life  and  the  desire  of 

living  long  before " 

He  spared  her  the  conclusion  of  his  sentence;  and 
she  was  quick  to  ask:  "As  his  friend  now,  can  you  say 
that  he  has  already  forgotten  me?" 

No;  it  was  evident  that  he  could  not  honestly  say 
that. 

"Ah!" — she  forgot  her  sorrow  in  triumph — "then  I 
have  still  a  little  time." 

"A  little  while"— he  granted  her— "a  little  while 
longer,  it  may  go  on.    But  do  you  expect  a  dying  man 
to  love  you?    The  idea  is  horrible — absurd,  as  well. 
We  put  all  those  things  away  before." 
"  Do  we  ?  "  she  asked.    "  Do  we  ?  " 
And  he  only:  "Is  it  worth  the  sacrifice?" 
But  she  insisted:  "I  am  the  judge  of  that." 
He  thought  her  dense.    "Oh,  I  know,  when  one 
wants  to  give,  it's  difficult  to  realize  that  the  gift  may 
not  be  advisable  or — or  acceptable." 

She  seemed  not  to  have  caught  the  last  word:  "If 
you  had  seen  me  at  Biarritz,"  she  began  hastily,  and 
then  stopped  and  changed  the  form  of  her  thought: 
"It  was  not  by  an  easy  way  that  I  came  here.  Even 
when  I  had  got  so  far — only  to  find  you  gone — I  had 
another  struggle  to  reason  out  whether  I  was  doing — 
not  right,  but  what  was  best  for  all  of  us.  I  walked  up 
and  down  the  sands — up  and  down  before  the  Casino 
there — you  know?  I  never  once  thought  of  turning 

back;  but  to  go  on  where  one  was  not  sure — when  the 

158 


Folly 

other  had  made  no  sign — it  seemed  temptingly  easy 
rather  to  slip  off  the  rocks  into  that  vivid  sea  and  forget 
everything.  But  it  would  have  been  shirking.  Oh,  I 
thought  it  well  out,  as  I  tramped  backwards  and  for- 
wards until  my  feet  were  like  lead.  And  in  the  end,  di- 
rection came  by  chance — or,  if  I  were  superstitious,  I 
should  say  by  revelation.  The  sands  were  hot  in  the 
sun  that  day;  and  as  I  wandered  among  the  crowd  of 
strangers,  I  caught  sight  of  a  man  sitting  unobserved, 
it  seemed,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Casino  steps.  I  could 
have  thought — I  did  think — that  nobody  else  saw  him, 
for  his  dress  should  have  attracted  wonder,  even  jeers. 

It  was  a  sort  of  white  monk's  robe  and  sandals " 

Gregory's  eyes  asked  plainly:  "Why  all  this  to  me?'* 
"And  his  hair  and  beard  were  chestnut  brown  and 
uncut,  and  his  eyes  as  blue  as  the  sea  on  which  they 
were  bent;  and  he  sat  absolutely  still,  with  his  hands 
clasped  over  a  long  staff  that  I  afterward  saw  was  a 
shepherd's  crook.  Every  time  I  went  up  and  down,  I 
felt  impelled  to  look  at  him;  but  he  never  seemed  to 
have  moved  or  withdrawn  his  eyes  from  the  sea.  The 
last  time,  then — I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  away 
from  the  temptation  there — I  found  him  standing  and 
leaning  on  the  crook;  and  as  I  gazed,  he  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  me,  and  I  forgot  everything  else  in  the  world.  I 
don't  know  whether  he  spoke;  I  seemed  to  see  the 
words  coming  from  his  lips:  "The  path  of  thorns  for 
you."  I  don't  know  what  followed — I  was  blind — and 
when  I  looked  again,  he  was  gone." 

159 


Folly 

"I  remember,"  said  Gregory  suddenly,  "we  heard  of 
that  man.  The  story  came  to  me  that  he  was  harm- 
lessly mad,  and  believed  himself  one  of  the  prophets ;  but 
somebody  told  Gore  that  he  was  an  impostor — had 
been  an  artist's  model — and  made  a  living  by  palmistry 
and  fortune-telling  .  .  .  that's  Biarritz  for  you." 

"No  matter,  it  served,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
enthusiasm  in  her  voice.  "As  I  turned  away,  the 
meaning  of  the  words  flashed  upon  me  as  fiercely  as  if 
it  had  been  written  in  fire:  "The  path  of  thorns — 
Espinal."  But  still  I  was  not  content.  I  said,  I  will 
try  one  more  test — it  will  be  the  third — and  I  will  abide 
by  the  lot,  whichever  way  it  falls.  I  was  mad,  no  doubt; 
you  will  say  so.  But  I  had  no  hesitation.  I  walked 
straight  into  the  Casino  and  staked  all  on  a  single 
throw:  Espinal  or  the  rocks.  I  took  the  first  money  I 
touched  and  threw  down  a  ten-pound  note;  two  sec- 
onds later  I  gathered  up  five  thousand  francs.  So  I 
came." 

What  could  he  do  with  a  woman  like  this?  thought 
Gregory.  Aloud  he  said:  "Have  you  no  fear  in  play- 
ing with  your  life  and  fate?" 

"I  knew,"  she  answered  quietly,  "but  I  wanted  the 
seal  of  chance.  What  can  you  say?" 

"Nothing  but  go  ahead  and  pay  after,"  he  replied 
coldly. 

"We're  in  the  minority,  and  must  suffer  for  that,  I 
suppose.  Society  exacts  its  payment;  but  if  I  can  do 

anything  to  make  it  less  hard  for  him  now — ?" 

160 


Folly 

He  turned  to  her  impatiently;  he  had  answered  that 
argument  before:  "He  is  bound  to  suffer.  What  on 
earth  can  you  do?  You'll  remember  my  words  when 
it's  too  late." 

"Let  him  decide,  then,  whether  he  wants  me,"  she 
said. 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "  Oh,  it's  a  great  thing,  this  eter- 
nal you  and  /  business.  It  carries  on  the  universe,  no 
doubt;  but  there's  no  virtue  in  it,  as  your  poets  are 
always  declaring.  It's  selfish — selfish  to  the  core." 

"What  is  there  in  this  world  that  is  not?"  she  met 
him.  "But  I  grant  it — I  grant  anything  you  like;  it 
makes  no  difference.  Only  tell  him  I  am  here." 

"There  it  is  again," — he  turned  upon  her  angrily — 
"  selfish,  and  unreasonable.  You  would  snatch  from 
him  the  right  to  die  in  peace,  because  you  claim  you 
cannot  live  without  him.  You  drop  all  other  duties  to 
torment  him  the  last  months  of  his  life;  and  a  year 
hence  it  will  be  all  the  same.  I  tell  you,  there's  a  time 
and  place  for  loving  in  the  scheme  of  the  universe;  but 
to  let  it  dominate  you — master  you.  ..." 

"When  you  have  done  with  your  sermon,"  said  she, 
quiet  but  very  pale,  "you  will  tell  me  where  to  find 
him?" 

Gregory  winced,  for  of  all  men  he  most  hated  preach- 
ing. 

"I  have  only  just  come  into  my  right,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  and  it  is  not  you  who  shall  keep  me  from  it." 

"Very  well" — he  gave  up  the  contest.    "I  will  tell 
II  161 


Folly 

him  and  trouble  you  no  longer."  He  got  as  far  as  the 
door,  there  paused.  "All  the  same,  I  might  add  a 
word  to  show  you  his  own  point  of  view." 

She  trembled  and  shrank  away  from  him  in  her 
chair. 

"You  are  not  sure,  for  all  your  bravado," — he  faced 
her  keenly.  "You  have  a  deadly  fear — well,  we  need 
not  put  it  into  words.  The  other  day,  he  showed  me  a 
poem  he  had  just  written.  It  began,  'Love  is  a  vam- 
pire.' It  was  pretty  bad,  I  should  think — I  am  no  judge 
of  such  things;  but  it  revealed  a  sense  of  what  I  con- 
sider a  piece  of  raw  truth — truth  that  we  politely  cover 
up  when  we  can — truth  that  you  are  ignoring,  and  that 
will  be  your  undoing.  I  tell  you  there's  no  place  for 
you  in  his  life  now;  and  he  is  beginning  to  realize  it. 
Only  beginning,  I  admit;  but  in  a  month — a  week, 
perhaps, — who  can  tell  ?  " 

"You  think  you  understand  me,  but  I  am  sure  you 
do  not,"  she  answered  slowly. 

"And  there's  your  blindness — just  there," — his  fore- 
finger was  harsh.  "You  think  you  are  giving,  sacrific- 
ing, and  the  rest  of  it;  and  all  the  while  you  are  sucking 
blood,  drawing  life I  am  brutal?  " 

"Yes,"  she  gasped. 

"I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  and  as  his  friend 
I  warn  you."  There  was  no  mistaking  the  solemn  con- 
viction of  his  tone. 

She  could  not  speak,  and  he  waited  with  his  hand  on 

the  knob.  "Shall  I  tell  him  you  are  here?" 

162 


Folly 

"No,"  she  whispered,  and  could  say  no  more. 

"Your  own  heart  tells  you  I  am  right,"  he  pursued 
relentlessly. 

"I  should  do  harm — I  should  hurt  him "  It  was 

impossible  to  say  how  far  this  was  a  question.  "  Then 
I  must  go  away  ?  " 

"You  will  spare  both  much  suffering,"  he  said 
grimly. 

She  rose  and  approached  the  door.  "If  he  should 
ask  about  me — ever — will  you  tell  him  I  came  to  Es- 
pinal  and  went  away  again  ?  "  She  broke  short  with  a 
cry:  "Oh,  I  can't — I  can't!  Not  for  his  sake  even.  I 
must  see  him  one  minute — one  little  minute " 

"I  think  you  will  be  better  advised,"  said  he,  as 
gently  as  he  could. 

She  arose  to  go,  and  something  in  her  expression 
moved  him  to  seize  her  arm:  "No  rocks,  mind." 

She  shrugged. 

"You  will  not  be  quite  such  a  fool,  I  hope,"  he  cried, 
with  vehemence. 

"If  I  am  not,"  she  answered  slowly,  "it  will  be  be- 
cause I  have  still  some  faith  that  what  must  be  shall  be. 
I  suppose  you  are  right;  it  is  difficult  enough.  And 
you  are  honest.  But  it  may  be  that  you  cannot  keep 
us  apart.  I  shall  wait.  ..." 

She  gave  him  a  long,  steady  look,  as  he  held  the  door 
open  for  her;  then  went  away  without  finishing  her 
sentence. 


163 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  LAST  TOSS-UP. 

SHE  walked  slowly  away  without  purpose  or  aim. 
She  knew  that  the  rain  was  driving  fast,  and  raised  her 
umbrella  against  it.  She  was  conscious  of  climbing  a 
steep  road,  where  the  cobbles  were  shining  and  slip- 
pery; and  of  turning  her  back  on  the  sea  where  it  raced 
along  in  surf  pounding  the  beach;  and  she  observed 
that  she  had  entered  a  short  avenue  of  interlaced  feath- 
ery tamarisks,  that  she  passed  a  fountain  and  a  stone 
table  with  benches  where  women  might  work  and  sing 
in  the  summer-time.  But  for  the  drip  of  the  rain  she 
would  have  sat  down  there,  being  all  at  once  overcome 
by  a  heavy  lassitude. 

She  dragged  herself  onward,  and  came  to  a  lofty 
panelled  oaken  door;  and  by  the  carved  saints  and 
angels  above  it,  with  the  Virgin  crowning  all,  she  per- 
ceived that  she  was  before  a  church. 

She  entered,  without  knowing  why,  except  that  it 
was  easier  to  go  on  than  to  turn  back;  and  was  at  once 
confronted  by  a  great  darkness,  with  here  and  there  pin- 
points of  light,  crowning  tapers  that  illuminated  the 

164 


Folly 

gold  of  obscure  altars.  With  a  sense  of  refuge  and 
comfort,  that  still  involved  scant  recognition  of  the 
place  as  a  cathedral,  she  dropped  upon  a  bench  before 
the  nearest  shrine;  the  faint  odour  of  incense,  the  si- 
lence, the  shadows  were  all  narcotic  to  her  pain. 

Here  and  there  against  the  mist  of  candles  was  out- 
lined a  black  figure  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy  Ones. 
And  presently  Folly  slipped  to  her  knees,  not  thinking, 
scarcely  praying,  unless  a  blind  straining  towards 
help  that  is  withheld  be  counted  as  prayer.  But  by  de- 
grees the  ponderous  altar,  with  its  twisted  gilded  pillars, 
and  the  sculptured  wealth  of  divine  imagery  and 
symbolism,  out  of  all  keeping  with  a  wasted  town, 
pressed  upon  her  mind.  She  found  herself  noting  even 
the  tawdry  lace  and  worsted  flowers  bestowed  by  poor 
but  loving  hearts.  But  chiefly  the  painted  figure  which 
forms  the  centre  of  these  gorgeous  devices  of  the 
goldsmith's  art  drew  her  eyes.  It  was  of  wood, 
antique  in  carving,  rich  in  gold  vestments,  with  a 
sweet  frail  face  that  haunted  her  with  a  sense  vague  of 
familiarity.  It  was  when  she  discovered  or  fancied 
some  resemblance,  in  type  or  in  spirit,  to  the  Ma- 
donna at  Sunlands  that  she  bowed  her  head  under  the 
thronging  memories.  Everywhere  her  sacrifice  was 
refused.  What  was  her  place  ?  What  should  be  the 
end? 

She  looked  up  at  last,  and  found  Haldane  Gore 
standing  in  the  aisle  by  her  side. 

"I  am  come  for  you,"  he  said. 
165 


Folly 

And  she  could  find  no  answer  but:  "How  did  you 
know  I  was  here?" 

He  smiled  upon  her.  "There  are  no  English  ladies 
in  Espinal;  and  many  hands  pointed  the  way  to  the 
church.  The  streets  that  look  empty  are  full  of  eyes 
above.  Once  within,  I  saw  the  candle-light  on  your 
hair" — in  the  close  atmosphere  she  had  put  away  her 
veil — "and  that  was  all  I  needed." 

She  turned  aside,  faltering:  "I  don't  want  your 
pity." 

"My  pity,  girl!" — his  voice  should  have  been  reas- 
suring; but  she  noted  with  a  stab  of  pain  how  much 
of  its  old  music  was  lost.  "Are  you  ready  to  come 
home?" 

"Where  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"Where  we  two  are  together,"  said  he,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  arm. 

She  shook  it  off  gently.  "No — please. " 

As  they  looked  at  each  other,  he  was  thinking  with  a 
faint  sense  of  amusement  how  odd  it  was  that  a  man 
could  hold  a  fort  unshaken  for  six  months,  then  lower 
the  flag  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  And  she  was  won- 
dering how  best  to  ask  the  question  that  struggled  to 
her  lips  and  yet  could  not  be  uttered  at  all. 

"Why  did  you  come,  then?" — he  smiled  at  her. 

"  Espinal  is  the  place  of  thorns,"  she  murmured,  as  if 
to  herself. 

"And  you  are  used  to  cotton- wool!" 

"I  shouldn't  have  minded  anything,  I  think,"  she 
166 


Folly 

answered,  with  a  sudden  strength.  "But  now  I  am 
going  away  again  because  ..." 

"We  can  talk  better  in  the  cloister,"  said  he,  and 
drew  her  arm  through  his. 

They  walked  slowly  round  the  four  sides,  between  the 
elaborate  tracery  of  the  arches  that  opened  upon  the 
dank  garden,  and  the  walls  with  their  broken  effigies 
and  faded  frescoes  that  mark  the  graves  of  forgotten 
warriors  and  ecclesiastics. 

"Why  do  you  come  and  go  away  again?  Gregory? 
I  thought  so.  He  said  as  much.  And  when  he  had 
done  talking,  I  followed  you  at  once,  as  you  see." 

"But  he  was  right?"  she  urged. 

"  Perhaps.  What's  the  good  of  bothering  now  about 
right  and  wrong  ?  We've  wasted  enough  time  already, 
and  only  succeeded  in  warping  ourselves,  and  making 
others  miserable.  I'm  done  fighting.  Let's  give  it  up; 
for  after  all,  you  had  to  come." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "after  all,  I  had  to  come.  Do 
you  mean  that  we  should  not  bother  about  anything, 
but  just  be  happy?" 

He  nodded,  laughing.  "Something  very  like  that. 
Happy  as  people  never  are  when  they  have  a  life-time 
before  them." 

"But  Gregory  said  I  should  be  a  vampire.  ..." 

"  Drop  Gregory.  Now  you  are  here,  I  can't  do  with- 
out you,  and  I  won't!  I  am  like  a  thirsty  man  who  has 
found  a  spring  in  the  desert." 

Her  face  was  no  less  sombre.   "To  keep  the  figure, 
167 


Folly 

if  you  are  the  traveller,  In  the  very  nature  of  things  you 
must  journey  on  and  leave  the  spring  behind  in  the 
desert." 

His  face  had  gone  a  dull  red.  Suddenly  he  dropped 
it  on  her  shoulder.  "Don't  argue.  I  want  you.  I'm 
selfish.  Come." 

She  just  touched  his  forehead  with  her  finger-tips, 
smiling  with  dim  eyes;  but  gave  no  answer  at  first. 
After  a  time,  as  he  did  not  speak  or  move,  she  said 
softly:  "And  Gregory?" 

"He's  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Back  to  Biarritz,  and  so  home.  There  was  just 
time  for  a  train.  I  heard  him  out;  and  then  I  told  him 
what  I  meant  to  do.  He  understood,  and  will  have  got 
away  by  now;  it  was  the  only  thing." 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  she  asked  sadly. 

Gore  hesitated:  "Not  much.  Only  that  love  has 
knocked  out  friendship  pretty  well  since  the  world 
began.  And  that's  true,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  rank  ingratitude" — she  was  beginning;  but  he 
stopped  her.  "  No  more  of  that.  We're  dropping  right 
and  wrong,  you  know.  Where's  your  luggage?" 

"At  the  diligence  office.  You  see,  I  made  no  pro- 
vision for  retreat.  And  yet  I  did  not  bring  it  the  whole 
way,  either." 

"We'd  better  go  at  once  and  see  about  getting  it  fer- 
ried over." 

They  left  the  cloister  by  a  passage  that    opens 
168 


Folly 

into   a  patio    or    courtyard,     surrounded    by    mean 
houses. 

Here  she  turned  to  him  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  haven't 
fully  made  up  my  mind  yet,  you  know.  Gregory 
talked  and  you  talk,  and  what  am  I  to  think  of  it  all  ? 
The  scales  are  hanging  in  the  balance — what  is  to  tip 
them  the  one  way  or  the  other?" 

"My  need,"  said  he  hastily. 

"Yes,  but  it's  one  need  over  against  another  need," 
she  was  beginning. 

And  he:  "We  must  make  an  end  of  this  foolery." 

Suddenly  from  a  black  doorway  two  ragged  urchins 
tumbled  out,  close-locked  in  a  fierce  silent  struggle, 
and  wrestled  back  and  forth  over  the  cobbles. 

"There  it  is,"  said  he.  "It's  been  like  that  with  me 
ever  since  I  gave  you  up :  the  self  that  cried  out  for  you, 
and  the  self  that  remembered  you  and  counted  the 
cost.  Here's  a  solution.  I'm  reckless  now.  Toss  up. 
Let  them  fight  it  out.  Choose  your  man;  and  if  he 
wins,  you  have  your  way,  which  is  mine,  too,  now; 
otherwise.  ..." 

She  could  not  resist  the  challenge.  "The  blond  then. 
He's  smaller,  but  wiry  and  full  of  pluck.  ..." 

"Are  you  giving  or  taking  odds?"  he  asked. 

But  before  she  could  answer,  her  little  champion  had 
knocked  his  opponent  into  the  gutter,  and  was  pound- 
ing his  head  against  the  stones. 

Gore  dragged  off  the  sulky  victor  and  held  him  up, 
tousle -headed  and  snarling,  for  judgment. 

169 


Folly 

But  Folly  was  bending  over  the  vanquished,  endeav- 
ouring to  fasten  her  handkerchief  about  a  small  deep 
cut  over  his  left  eye — an  attention  which  he  doggedly 
resisted,  as  no  doubt  thinking  it  a  lace- edged  bit  of 
coddling,  unbecoming  the  dignity  of  a  man.  A 
peseta  he  accepted  as  a  sufficient  salve,  and  disap- 
peared round  the  corner,  grinning  triumph  over  his 
conqueror,  with  a  last  upward  thrust  at  the  bandage, 
and  blood  trickling  afresh  down  his  dirty  cheek. 

Another  peseta  to  the  victor  scarcely  atoned  for  the 
injury  to  his  pride;  and  he  retired,  red-faced  and 
muttering. 

"There  we  did  wrong,"  said  Gore.  "We  rewarded 
them  alike,  when  one  was  wrong  and  one  right; 
and  one  was  the  better  man  of  the  two,  but  it  did  him 
no  good." 

"What  matter  for  that?"  she  cried,  flushed  and 
laughing,  as  if  a  heavy  weight  had  fallen  from  her 
shoulders.  "I  knew  we  should  win;  it  was  written  in 
the  stars.  But  it  was  you  this  time  who  cast  the  lot. 
Come  now,  we  can  be  happy  at  last" — her  face  grew 
dim  again,  as  she  added  softly — "for  a  little  while." 


x;o 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  HOME-COMING. 

IT  was  amazing  to  see  how  quickly  she  took  com- 
mand. She  would  not  listen  for  a  moment  to  Gore's 
crossing  the  ferry  with  her,  but  sent  him  to  the  fonda 
to  prepare  her  welcome  home,  as  she  phrased  it,  declar- 
ing herself  able  and  eager  to  manage  and  direct  any 
number  of  boatmen  and  porters  and  muleteers.  And 
in  this  mood  she  had  her  way. 

Gore  returned  to  the  inn  and  straightway  drove  the 
sewra-proprietress  distracted  with  his  demands  for 
things  unheard  of  in  that  place  that  should  increase  the 
English  lady's  comfort.  He  chose  for  her  a  room  like 
his  own,  facing  the  sea,  and  immediately  insisted  upon 
a  dozen  alterations.  There  must  be  fresh  curtains,  and 
larger  rugs,  and  a  more  comfortable  arm-chair,  and  a 
shelf  for  books,  and  flowers.  .  .  .  Afterwards,  there 
was  a  chattering  as  of  angry  swallows  in  the  kitchen, 
where  the  senora  conferred  with  her  domestics.  And 
where  was  she  to  get  such  flowers  in  Espinal  at  this  time 
of  year?  In  the  sitting-room  he  was  scarcely  less  exi- 
gent, so  that  by  the  time  his  chocolate  and  water  were 

171 


Folly 

brought  up  the  nerves  of  the  whole  household  were 
a-flutter. 

But  the  twilight  was  settling,  chilly  and  heavy  with 
clouds,  before  Folly  came  in,  fresh  with  damp  air,  her 
eyes  dark  and  brilliant  with  excitement,  holding  out 
her  hands  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  forbid  embrace. 

"It  is  not  the  same.  You  have  been  altering.  How 
pretty — the  tamarisks!"  Her  glance  roved  about  the 
room,  as  she  held  her  fingers  toward  the  red  charcoal. 
"You  have  thought  of  everything.  No,  you  are  not  to 
move.  That  Basque  girl  will  show  me  the  way.  Why 
was  I  so  long  ?  Oh,  I  sent  my  luggage  on.  I  believe  it 
has  been  below  for  ages,  but  they  never  noticed,  of 
course,  being  Spanish.  I — must  you  know,  then? — I 
went  back  to  the  cathedral.  No,  don't  take  me  up  yet. 
Not  to  think  or  to  hesitate,  but  only  to  realize,  and  to 
wish,  and,  perhaps,  to  pray  a  little.  You  don't  mind  ? 
Of  course  we  were  sure  before  that  it  had  to  be;  but 
somehow  I  could  not  help  wanting  a — well,  perhaps  a 
blessing — on  our — new  life." 

"Wheedling  the  other  world,  since  this  is  bound  to 
be  harsh" — he  smiled  at  her  and,  suddenly  overcome 
by  weariness,  dropped  back  into  his  chair. 

"Yes" — she  was  very  serious  about  it — "but  we'll 
put  all  that  away  now  and — and  live."  She  fell  on  her 
knees  by  his  side,  and  he  drew  her  close  with  that 
sense  of  fulfilment,  of  completeness,  which  is  the  most 
perfect  and  the  rarest  joy  that  life  gives. 

But  into  his  peace,  into  the  thankful  cry  of  his  heart 
172 


Folly 

that  their  struggle  was  done,  came  the  sudden  stabbing 
pain  that  brought  the  sweat  of  agony  to  his  face.  She 
felt  him  tremble;  and  misunderstood,  and  drew  closer, 
while  he  was  fighting  the  groans  that  strove  for  utter- 
ance. The  sweetest  moment  of  her  life  had  become  for 
him,  in  the  space  of  a  breath,  almost  too  terrible  to  bear. 
He  held  her  in  silence,  with  the  single  thought  that,  at 
any  cost,  he  must  hide  from  her  this  beginning  of  the 
end  until  she  had  had  her  little  taste  of  the  life  she 
craved. 

The  light  of  the  brazier  was  on  her  face  and  hair,  but 
his  features  were  in  shadow;  and  the  love- words  on  her 
lips  found  no  response  but  in  his  clasp. 

She  might  have  divined  the  truth,  had  she  not  been 
so  absorbed  in  the  strangeness  of  her  new  joy.  As  it 
was,  she  withdrew  after  a  time,  perhaps  unconsciously 
a  little  chilled  by  his  tension,  or  frightened,  or  shy,  and 
declared  that  she  must  go  and  dress  herself  to  his 
liking. 

"You  are  always  to  my  liking,"  he  had  answered; 
and  what  devil  of  memory  brought  it  into  her  mind 
that  her  husband  had  often  used  these  very  words? 

She  rang  for  the  grave-eyed  Basque  chambermaid 
to  help  her  unpack  and  shake  out  and  hang  up  her 
gowns;  and  she  herself  arranged  the  dressing-table, 
and  smiled  often  into  the  glass,  and  said  again  and 
again  how  she  was  happy  at  last 

And  when  the  maid  had  gone,  she  brought  out  the 
only  white  dress  among  all  the  black  array — one  that 

173 


Folly 

had  got  in,  she  scarcely  knew  how,  perhaps  because  it 
had  no  trace  of  colour  about  it. 

"I  can't  wear  mourning  this  one  night — my  great 
night,"  she  was  thinking,  as  she  stroked  the  creases  out 
of  the  plain  white  poplin. 

Suddenly,  as  her  fingers  played  among  the  frills, 
they  came  upon  a  small  brown  stain,  forgotten  ever 
since  the  dress  had  been  put  away  after  its  one  wear- 
ing. The  memory  flashed  up :  there  had  been  people 
to  dinner — gossips,  slanderers,  whom  she  hated — 
and  afterwards  she  had  sent  for  the  baby,  sound 
asleep  in  the  old  cradle,  to  show  them;  perhaps  to 
disarm  their  tongues  by  a  glimpse  of  her  domesticity, 
perhaps  only  to  give  herself  the  joy  of  holding  him  at 
a  forbidden  hour.  And  thus  rudely  awakened  he  had 
not  cried,  as  they  all  expected,  but  had  sat  up,  dewy- 
eyed  with  sleep,  and  had  played  with  her  chain,  and 
knocked  her  coffee-spoon  against  the  frill.  It  was 
difficult  to  remember  that  the  brown  spot  remained  and 
baby  was  gone.  .  .  .  But  to  wear  the  dress  was  im- 
possible. .  .  .  She  must  go  down  in  her  black,  after 
all 

For  some  reason  that  she  did  not  trouble  to  define, 
she  adorned  herself  with  gems — not  the  splendour  of 
diamonds,  or  the  purity  of  pearls,  or  opals,  the  stones 
of  misfortune,  but  topaz  and  amethyst  and  sapphire 
and  ruby  and  emerald,  so  that  she  sparkled  with  many- 
coloured  rays  as  she  came  down  the  long  polished 
coldly-lighted  corridor  and  stairway,  and  found  her 

174 


Folly 

lover  in  the  same  dark  room,  in  the  same  attitude  over 
the  brazier  of  charcoal. 

"No  lights?"  she  demanded  gaily. 

And  he :  "  So  soon  ?  I  didn't  expect  you  for  half  an 
hour  yet.  We  dine  here.  There's  no  one  else  at  the 
fonda,  and  the  vast  bare  dining-room  is  insufferable. 
Shall  I  ring?" 

They  had  the  lights  on  then,  and  they  laughed  and 
talked  quite  in  the  old  comfortable  fashion  over  the 
strange  soup,  and  stranger  fish,  and  meat  dishes 
strangest  of  all. 

But  to  Gore  the  courses  seemed  interminable;  for 
the  part  that  he  was  playing  grew  every  moment 
more  difficult.  The  soft-voiced  maid  moved  about  de- 
liberately in  her  hemp-soled  sandals;  Folly  lingered 
and  toyed  with  her  many-coloured  fires,  and  the  hands 
of  the  clock  seemed  spellbound. 

And  Folly  noticed  only,  with  a  sudden  chill,  that 
while  he  made  a  pretence  at  each  course  in  turn,  he 
took  not  even  the  specially-prepared  broth  that  she 
perceived  would  have  been  his  only  dish  had  be  been 
alone. 

"Now  for  coffee  and  cigarettes," — he  continued  his 
show  of  gaiety.  "And  would  you  mind  having  the 
lights  off  again?  They — they  hurt  my  eyes  rather — 
to-night."  He  had  a  hope  that  in  the  darkness  he 
could  still  keep  from  her  the  burning  pain  that  devoured 
thought  and  feeling. 

'75 


Folly 

"I  shall  like  it,"  said  she,  "because  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,  and  I  always  talk  best  in  the  dark." 

So  they  were  again  alone  in  the  red  glow,  and  he 
made  an  attempt  at  smoking,  but  after  a  moment 
quietly  knocked  out  the  fire  and  dropped  the  cigarette. 

"You  are  too  tired,"  she  began,  "and  it  is  my  fault. 
It  must  never  happen  again." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  he  tried  to  jest.  "I  shouldn't 
want  you  coming  every  day." 

"No,  that's  over — for  a  lifetime.  But  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  what  to  expect  of  me." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  sound  was  so  unlike  what 
he  had  intended  that  he  quenched  it  in  the  hasty  ques- 
tion: "And  what  do  you  expect  of  me?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  "nothing  at  all.  Provided  I 
can  make  you  happy." 

She  expected  nothing,  and  yet  her  fingers  sought  his, 
and  she  drew  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  And 
she  thought  to  make  him  happy,  at  a  time  when  life 
could  spell  nothing  but  pain.  And  while  she  restrained 
her  eagerness  to  caress,  he  lacked  strength  even  to  re- 
spond to  her  hesitating  touch. 

"You  are  cold,"  she  said  gently.  "Shall  I  ring  for 
more  fire  ?  No  ?  A  rug  then  ?  I  shall  not  let  you  be 
uncomfortable;  you  don't  know  what  a  tyrant  of  a 
nurse  I  can  be." 

He  felt  that  it  was  incumbent  upon  him  to  say  some- 
thing, to  explain,  to  respond;  and  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. "It's  the  excitement,  I  suppose.  I  shall  be  all 

176 


Folly 

right  to-morrow.  Tell  me  what  you  were  going  to 
say." 

"  You  are  trembling,"  she  insisted.  "And  we  should 
be  peaceful  now — you  and  I." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  For  the  moment  it  was  a  physi- 
cal impossibility  to  say  more;  but  presently — resisting 
the  bitter  cry  within  him,  "Can't  you  let  me  alone?" 
— he  got  out:  "lam.  Don't  worry." 

Perhaps  some  instinct  warned  her  off  dangerous 
ground.  "The  strange  thing  is,  I  knew  it  the  moment 
I  entered  the  room — the  home-feeling,  I  mean;  and  I 
have  never  had  it  before  in  all  my  life.  Even  in  my 
husband's  house,  I  always  felt  somehow  like  an  hon- 
oured guest — the  way  was  made  so  smooth  for  me,  and 
yet  I  was  not  a  part  of  it  all.  I  didn't  really  belong 
there.  I  thought  when  baby  came  perhaps  it  might  be 
different — but  we  won't  talk  of  that.  To-day  I  under- 
stood. It  was  not  what  you  had  done  to  wel- 
come me;  nor  even,  I  think,  the  fact  that  you  were 
here,  so  much  as  the  sense  that  at  last  I  was  needed — 
there  was  something  for  me  to  do,  and  for  him  I  loved 
best  in  the  world.  ...  To  give  all  and  do  all,  in  that 
way — what  more  can  happiness  be  ?  " 

He  could  not  utter  his  groan:  "You  are  wrong; 
there  is  nothing  for  you  to  do  when  pain  is  master." 

Aloud  he  stammered:  "I  don't  know  this  new 
unselfish  Folly." 

"She's  not  so  different  from  the  old  one,"  she  re- 
torted. "It's  only  a  potentiality  developing.  Before, 

12  177 


Folly 

there  was  nobody  to  call  it  out.  ...  I  shall  be  useful, 
you  will  see;  I  can  be  practical — that's  another  side 
you  don't  know.  And  I  shall  begin  this  moment  with 
a  stupid  question.  Since  Gregory  has  left  you,  will  he 
throw  over  the  work  he  has  been  doing  ?  " 

"Don't  know  and  don't  care,"  he  managed  to  say. 
"What  does  it  matter  now?" 

She  misunderstood  utterly.  "It  matters  everything 
to  me.  You  can  go  on  with  his  treatment  ?  " 

"If  I  like,"  he  answered  indifferently.  "There's  a 
decent  doctor  here;  and  at  Biarritz,  of  course " 

"Paris,"  she  whispered.  "You  shall  come  to  Paris 
with  me;  and  we  shall  spend  every  penny  we  have  in 
the  world.  ..." 

The  pain  threatened  to  get  beyond  control.  Gore's 
voice  was  harsh  as  he  interrupted:  "It's  no  good,  I  tell 
you.  It  was  too  late  six  months  ago.  Not  a  step" — his 
vehemence  ended  in  a  gasp. 

"Very  well" — she  submitted  but  for  the  time,  he  was 
sure.  "I  won't  trouble  you  about  it  any  more  now. 
We  will  take  the  days  as  they  come" — her  voice  quiv- 
ered, but  she  plucked  it  up  bravely  and  continued : 

"  I  have  all  sorts  of  plans  for  doing  things.  I  can  be 
your  secretary,  and  I  will  read  to  you — Spanish,  if  you 
like;  only  I  don't  know  much.  Is  there  some  one  who 
could  teach  me?" 

"  One  of  the  Sisters  at  the  Shrine,"  he  got  out. 

"I  will  make  you  happy  for  a  long,  long  time " 

Long?    Every  moment  was  endless  to  him,  while  she 
178 


Folly 

Was  in  the  first  flush  of  her  joy.    The  helplessness  of 
love  when  the  grim  forces  of  the  body  are  at  war! 

"You  will  let  me  do  everything  I  can?  " 

"I  will  let  you" — he  yielded  to  a  momentary  shud- 
der— "have  your  own  way  in  all  things." 

"Then  I  am  content,"  she  murmured,  "for  my  way 
will  be  your  way." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  he  tried  to  ask  lightly. 
"That's  still  another  Folly." 

"There  have  been  so  many  Follies  from  the  begin- 
ning," she  answered  soberly.  "But  I  think  this  Folly 
is  a  stranger  to  them  all;  and  I  am  sure — she  is  yours 
— at  your  will " 

She  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  both  were 
outwardly  quiet;  but  he  was  wondering,  with  a 
kind  of  wild  impatience,  how  he  could  bring  endear- 
ments to  lips  that  were  stiffened  with  pain,  or  caress 
her  when  his  whole  body  shrank  into  one  great  long- 
ing for  quiescence;  and  she  was  thinking  that  the 
flaw  must  be  in  herself,  that  prevented  their  perfect 
understanding — the  continuance  of  that  exquisite 
joy  that  had  lasted  but  a  moment,  when  she  first  came 
to  him.  .  .  . 

He  stirred  involuntarily  and  a  faint  groan  escaped 
him.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  tender  little  cry: 
"Ah,  you  are  exhausted,  and  I  am  keeping  you  up  I 
You  must  go  to  bed.  And  to-morrow.  ..." 

"Yes,  to-morrow,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

"You  will  be  better  to- morrow  1" 
179 


Folly 

"I  shall  be  all  right.  And  we  can  talk  again.  We 
shall  have  all  the  time  now." 

"Perhaps  I  have  been  troubling  you?"  There  was 
a  real  question  under  her  feigned  laugh. 

Troubling  him?  His  only  thought  was  how  to  be 
rid  of  her  quickly,  and  sink  under  the  burden  that  he 
could  not  bear  longer  without  sign.  Her  wistful 
"  Good-night,  then,"  was  a  fresh  torture.  She  longed 
for  kisses;  and  God!  how  the  thought  of  all  such 
things  sickened  him  then.  Was  it  perhaps  better  after 
all  to  tell  her  so  in  the  beginning  ? 

"You — you  will  be  patient  at  first  with  a  sick  man?" 
he  stammered  out. 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  she  said  earnestly,  and  waited. 

He  bent  his  will  into  a  fierce  effort  to  make  her  go, 
cursing  himself  that  he  had  brought  her  to  this  pass. 
But  he  had  not  dreamed — the  pitiful  defence! — that 
Nemesis  could  pounce  so  quickly. 

"To-morrow — we  shall  be  happy  yet."  It  was  hor- 
ribly lame;  but  it  was  the  best  he  could  do. 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  then  she  spoke  cheerfully: 
"How  otherwise?  I  shall  turn  on  the  light  now.  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  he  interrupted  hoarsely. 

"But  why — what — Hal,  are  you  in  pain?  What  is 
the  matter?" 

"Not  at  all — nothing — only  a  little  used  up,  as  you 
have  guessed.  I  shall  rest  a  moment,  and  then  I  have 
something  to  do  before  I  come  up-stairs." 

Thereupon  she  bravely  made  the  best  of  the  situa- 
180 


Folly 

tion:  "If  you  don't  go  soon — and  I  can  see  this  light 
from  my  balcony — I  shall  come  down  in  my  dressing- 
gown,  like  any  old  harridan  of  a  nurse,  and  scold  you 
as  you  deserve!" 

It  was  all  acting.  Each  knew  it  and  knew  that  the 
other  knew.  But  at  least  she  had  got  in  some  measure 
to  feel  his  attitude. 

"It  was  only  a  little  thing  that  I  neglected — put  off 
doing  earlier,"  he  explained. 

And  she:  "Very  well.    But  don't  be  long  about  it." 

With  that  she  opened  the  door  before  he  could  reach 
it,  looking  very  pale  where  the  light  crossed  her  cheek. 
As  he  stood  just  within,  she  was  conscious  of  thinking 
that  the  shadows  played  strange  ghastly  tricks  with  a 
face. 

He  made  a  last  effort  and  held  out  his  arms.  "I  will 
come  soon." 

Then  she,  with  her  face  hidden  against  his  shoulder, 
whispered:  "No,  not  to-night.  You  will  be  better 
alone.  We  shall  talk  to-morrow." 

With  that  she  went  upstairs,  and  smiled  at  her  own 
reflection  in  the  glass.  "We  shall  be  happy  yet." 

She  watched  until  the  light  below  ceased  to  shine 
across  the  street;  then  after  a  while  went  to  sleep, 
smiling,  with  wet  lashes. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  Gore  opened  his  bureau 
and  took  out  a  small  syringe  and  bottle. 

"Pity  I  couldn't  have  taken  it  sooner;  but  she  would 
have  noticed — she  would  have  been  sure  to  notice.  I 


Polly 

must  try  what  I  can  do  without  her  observing  anything 
out  of  the  way.  It's  never  been  quite  so  bad  before." 

He  tore  off  his  coat  and  cuff,  rolled  up  his  shirt- 
sleeve, and  added  another  prick  to  the  cluster  on  his 
forearm. 

"It's  become  a  pretty  game,"  he  thought,  as  the  pain 
grew  less  intense.  "All  through  a  moment's  weakness. 
.  .  .  And  Greg  tried  to  save  us.  ...  But  there's  no 
use  thinking  of  that.  .  .  .  And  there's  no  going  back. 
.  .  .  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  let  her  have  her  way — 
to  fight  these  attacks — to  keep  it  from  her  all  I  can — 
to  make  her  as  happy  as  .  .  . " 

He  felt  a  stupor  from  the  drug  overpowering  him, 
and  stumbled  to  his  feet,  lest  she,  seeing  the  light, 
should  come  down  and  find  him  thus. 

All  the  way  upstairs  the  words  kept  mumbling 
themselves  over  in  his  brain:  "As  happy  as — as  happy 
as  .  .  ." 

He  paused  at  her  door  for  a  moment:  "I  wonder  if 
she  is  happy?" — there  was  no  sound  f rom  within — 
"or  asleep  and  forgetting?" 

He  passed  on  to  his  own  room,  in  his  ears  the  insist- 
ent refrain:  "As  happy  as — as  happy  as — happy  ..." 


182 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  BARRIER. 

"WHAT  is  the  date?"  asked  Gore,  as  he  moved  his 
face  to  avoid  a  sudden  flicker  of  sunlight  on  the  wide 
couch  under  the  window  that  faced  the  street. 

"Haven't  an  idea.  I've  lost  count  of  time,"  an- 
swered Folly  cheerily,  and  as  if  his  speaking  had 
stirred  her  from  some  train  of  thought,  dropped  her 
work  heedlessly  on  the  floor  and  went  towards  him. 

"Is  that  my  new  smoking- jacket  you  are  trampling 
on  ? "  he  demanded,  in  mock  anger. 

She  rescued  it,  smiling,  and  proceeded  to  shake  his 
pillows. 

"Don't  fuss,"  he  protested.  "They're  all  right.  I 
shall  be  up  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

At  his  impatient  movement  she  desisted,  but  re- 
mained standing  by  him,  with  one  knee  on  the  couch, 
staring  across  the  way  with  unseeing  eyes. 

In  the  full  sunshine  she  looked  worn — almost  as 
haggard  as  himself,  he  thought,  with  a  stir  of  impa- 
tient remorse.  Feeling  his  eyes  upon  her,  she  glanced 
down  at  him  anxiously,  with  parted  lips. 

"Nothing — nothing,"   he   answered   her   unspoken 


Folly 

question.  And  to  his  own  amazement  found  himself 
asking:  "Are  you  happy?" 

"Why,  my  dear" — her  voice  broke  a  little,  and  she 
fell  on  her  knees  and  put  her  cheek  to  his. 

After  a  time  he  stirred,  and  she  drew  away.  Then 
he  said: 

"I  always  supposed  happiness  dwelt  on  the  moun- 
tains— a  long  climb  up,  and  a  swift  drop  down,  and 
a  brief  moment  of  sojourn.  And  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  are  there?" 

"  Far  on  the  way,"  she  insisted,  "  oh,  very  far.  I  used 
to  think  there  were  many  roads,  such  as  fame  and 
wealth  and  the  like,  and  I  tried  them  all;  but  they 
stopped  short  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  So  only  the 
way  of  love  remained  and  I  took  to  that,  though  it  was 
steep  and  difficult,  and  at  one  time  I  thought  inacces- 
sible; but  now  I  am  climbing  on,  and  sometimes  the 
peak  is  so  plain  that  I  can  almost  put  out  my  hand  and 
grasp  it." 

"But  never  quite,"  he  said. 

"  So  far.  But  what  I  mind  is  this.  We  are  both  on 
the  same  trail,  and  close  together;  but  more  and  more 
I  lose  you.  It  is  as  if  clouds  rolled  between  us,  and  even 
your  voice  came  to  me  muffled  as  through  a  fog.  .  .  . 
I  have  worked  the  figure  to  death.  Hal,  tell  me  what 
it  is?" 

"Nonsense!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  You  are  ill  and  I  am  well — can  it — does  it — make 

so  much  difference  as  that?" 

184 


Folly 

"It's  the  difference  between  a  whole  woman  and  a 
piece  of  a  man,"  he  said  lightly. 

"I  know.  I  preferred  the  piece  to  the  whole  of  any- 
body else.  And  I  am  content  with  each  day,  only  I 
fear — but  you  won't  let  me  fear.  ..." 

" Certainly  not,"  said  he.    "Why  fear ? " 

"Why?"  she  repeated.  "I  fear  that  I  cannot 
stand  it — I  mean  what  I  mind  is,  feeling  that  you  suf- 
fer, and  being  helpless  to  help,  by  the  very  fact  of  your 
pain  being  shut  out  from  your  real  self.  O  Hal,  you 
hide  it  from  me;  there  are  times  when  you  bang  the 
door  in  my  face!" 

"What  have  I  to  hide?" — there  was  scorn  in  his 
laughter.  "  Would  you  have  me  make  a  fool  of  myself  ?  " 

"I  would  have  you — I  think  I  would  have  you  to 
be  yourself,  as  if  you  were  alone." 

"Folly,  Folly!"  he  answered,  with  double  meaning. 

"You  can't  deny  it,  can  you ?  That  you  are  acting  a 
part?  That  there's  a  barrier  between  us?  That  I 
can't  come  on  the  other  side  ?  " 

"It  isn't  your  time  yet  to  see  with  my  eyes,"  he  said 
gently. 

"Not  when  I  love  you  so?" 

"Perhaps  the  less  for  that."  He  corrected  himself 
hastily.  "I  mean,  you  exaggerate  the  bar,  or  what- 
ever you  call  it,  between  us.  There  is  nothing  but — " 

"Ah,  but!" 

" — what  must  be."  His  thought  was:  "I  could  tell 
you  in  a  word — death."  Aloud  he  continued :  "Come, 

let's  drop  it  and  be  merry.    Read  me  La  Voz. " 

185 


Folly 

But  she  shook  her  head:  "First  tell  me  how  I  fail 
you?" 

"Silly  girl!"  he  raised  himself  on  one  elbow,  to  lend 
force  to  his  admonition:  "You  fail  in  wasting  time 
wondering  where  you  fail." 

She  would  not  have  that,  but  sank  lower  on  the 
floor,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his  hand.  "O  mis- 
ery! Hal,  can't  we  break  it  down  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  bent  head,  smiling  absently  as  he 
thought:  "Break  down  the  barriers  that  death  is  so 
insistently,  so  irresistibly  building?  It  is  like  Folly  to 
try." 

Aloud  he  said:  "Well,  then,  let's  sum  up  the 
situation,  if  you  must;  and  after  that,  let  it  rest. 
My  poor  girl,  in  a  word  you  are  disappointed — disillu- 
sioned  " 

"No!"  she  breathed  fiercely. 

"  But  yes.  Naturally,  you  are  too  loyal  to  admit  it. 
You  loved  a  sentient  being  with  a  certain  amount  of 
brain,  of  will,  of — well,  of  life-force,  say.  What  have 
you  got?  A  physical  shell,  dropping  to  pieces  daily; 
a  burden;  a  lump;  a  care  and  anxiety  that  gives  you 
no  peace.  ..." 

"I  would  not  be  without  it  for  the  world!" 

"Not  you.  But  you  miss  the  man  you  used  to 
know.  ..." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet.    O  Hal,  a  little  longer — for  my 

SclrvC*     *     •     • 

Her  distress  at  once  wearied  and  irritated  him. 
186 


Folly 

"Well,  well,  we  shall  do  our  best,  my  girl.  But  you 
were  speaking  of  a  barrier.  ..." 

"Yes,  a  barrier,  that  is  all,"  she  answered  steadily. 
"You  insist  that  you  are  not  there  behind  it.  That  is 
not  true;  I  will  not  have  it  so.  You  are  there;  but  I 
cannot  find  you.  With  all  my  love  I  cannot  find  you. " 

He  turned  away  from  her  to  the  window.  "I  don't 
know — I  don't  know."  What  could  all  this  self- 
analysis  matter,  when  pain  was  incessant,  unendurable  ? 

He  remembered  suddenly  the  cry  of  the  old  Norse- 
man: "I  shall  die  laughing."  It  was  not  so  altogether 
easy  when  the  torture  was  drawn  out  over  months;  but 
for  her  sake  he  made  another  struggle  against  the 
quagmire  of  melancholy,  and  essayed  a  laugh.  It  was 
a  failure  as  he  knew  by  her  next  words. 

"You're  not  worse  to-day?"  she  asked  nervously. 

As  he  did  not  at  once  answer  or  meet  her  eyes,  she 
pleaded:  "You  are  not,  I  tell  you,  you  are  not!  Why, 
yesterday — but  to-day  you  did  eat  a  little,  and  the 
doctor  said.  ..." 

She  broke  down,  but  quickly  resumed  her  courage, 
with  an  eager:  "We  must  go  somewhere  for  help — 
Biarritz — Paris — London;  there  is  help  in  the  world!" 

"Let  a  fellow  alone,  can't  you?"  The  smile  atoned 
for  the  words. 

"  Say  you're  not  worse  then." 

"I'm  not  worse  then." 

"There  it  is,  the  barrier — so  distinct,  so  impalpable. 

You  fail  to  understand  even  my  anxiety." 

187 


Folly 

He  might  have  answered,  "And  you  my  pain?" 
But  instead  he  clutched  at  a  straw  of  comfort  for  her: 
"  You  see,  we  worked  several  hours  this  morning.  ..." 

"That's  it.  Of  course.  How  silly  of  me!  I  am 
stupid!  You  will  have  some  Chartreuse?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  refusal,  but  she  insisted.  He 
turned  away  and  shielded  his  face  as  he  drank;  but 
she  would  not  be  spared,  setting  her  lips  grimly,  with 
the  thought :  "  I  must  bear  to  see  it.  I  must  go  through 
with  it  all — to  the  very  end." 

"Better  now?"  she  asked,  with  amazing  good  cheer. 
"I  thought  so.  To-morrow  you  must  do  less." 

"Nothing,"  he  corrected  her.  "To-morrow  I  shall 
be  idle — on  the  sands,  perhaps — and  you  shall  read  me 
— what  shall  you  read  me?  A  fairy  tale  to  make  us 
forget  the  flatness  of  this  daily  world — what  have  we 
got  unread?" 

She  was  wondering  as  he  spoke  whether,  if  once  she 
could  climb  over  that  impenetrable  thicket  in  his  mind, 
she  should  come  upon  nothing  but  a  sterile  plain,  or 
the  home-valley  with  its  twinkling  fires  would  await 
her  soul. 

She  answered  softly:  "I  think  you  must  not  be  idle 
altogether.  I  want  you  to  get  on  with  the  'City  of 
Thorns.'" 

"No  good,"  said  he  cheerfully.  "I  won't  be  driven. 
It  isn't  worth  it." 

"I  know  better,"  she  insisted. 

And  "I  know  better,"  he  sparred  with  her. 
1 88 


Folly 

"Some  people  will  be  glad  of  it — a  few,  you  know. 
It's  worth  while  pleasing  them." 

She  touched  him  there,  and  he  turned  away. 

He  could  see  his  neighbour,  the  Basque  woman,  on 
her  balcony,  scattering  crumbs  to  a  flock  of  chirping 
pigeons.  He  thought  that  she  looked  pale  and  un- 
happy, more  than  ever  like  Folly — his  Folly.  And 
what  was  he  to  do  when  the  tension  of  life  was  loosen- 
ing day  by  day ? 

He  was  not  aware  that  he  had  spoken  aloud  until  her 
arms  were  encircling  him.  "  I  know.  I  cannot  hold  you. 
You're  slipping — slipping.  ..." 

Still  as  in  a  dream  he  muttered:  "It  will  never  be 
finished  anyway." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  poem  then.    She  let  him  go. 

"  Italy  now — shall  we  try  for  Italy  in  the  spring  ? 
This  Spain  is  inhospitable — all  mountain  and  desert 
and  sea.  Let's  get  away  from  the  City  of  Thorns,  and 
walk  in  the  olive-gardens  of  Fiesole.  You  shall  be 
Simonetta — you  are  rather  like  Simonetta;  and  I 
should  have  to  be  a  new  Botticelli,  painting  you  in 
verses  instead  of  colours;  but  no,  my  part  is  that  of 
Giuliano,  who  gave  up  the  ghost.  ..." 

His  wits  were  surely  wandering,  she  thought.  "  Don't 
hurt  me  so,"  she  implored. 

"It's  like  that  old  fresco  in  the  cloisters  here,  death 
in  all  its  forms  steaming  up  through  the  earth  into  the 
merriment  of  the  feast.  A  church  may  be  beautiful  in 

its  decay,  or  a  house,  or  a  tree — why  can't  I  do  the  act 

189 


Folly 

gracefully?  What's  the  matter?  What  have  I  been 
saying?"  He  lapsed  into  the  bitterest  inner  cry  upon 
his  selfishness,  that  struggled  with  a  growing  stress 
upon  the  need — and  the  impossibility — of  self-control. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  with  nervous  tugging  at 
a  hideous  woollen  fringe  on  his  couch.  "I  can't  stand 
it" — she  caught  herself — "this  fringe,  I  mean.  Lend 
me  your  knife.  I  must  cut  it  off." 

"Cut  it  off — cut  it  off,"  he  repeated,  looking  at  her 
strangely. 

"When  I  think  of  the  future — "  she  began. 

He  winced,  but  it  was  no  part  of  his  penance  to  add 
the  burden  of  his  self-reproach  to  what  she  already  had 
to  bear.  And  yet  when  he  put  himself  in  her  place  and 
tried  to  imagine  how  it  would  be  with  her  after  he  was 
gone.  .  .  . 

"Hang  the  future!"  he  essayed. 

"Ah,  yes,  hang  the  future!" — she  followed  him.  "I 
could  bear  to  think  of  it — to  think  of  our  separation — 
if  now,  while  we  are  together,  I  could  be  to  you  what  I 
thought,  what  we  hoped  .  .  .  once  when  there  was  no 
room  for  hope  ...  I  could  live  on  through  this  life, 
and  life  upon  life,  if  I  thought  that  in  the  end  we  should 
understand.  .  .  .  But  I  know  nothing  except  that  now 
we  are  farther  apart  than  before,  when  we  were  sepa- 
rated." 

"Poor  girl" — he  pitied  her,  but  he  was  too  weary  to 
reason,  or  even  to  follow  out  her  reasoning. 

"I  can't  make  them  out — the  different  kinds  of  love. 
190 


Folly 

When  I  was  engaged  to  Andrew,  I  was  what  they  call 
in  love  with  him — I  nineteen,  he  twenty-nine.  He  ought 
to  have  known  his  own  mind;  and  I  think  he  did.  I 
believe" — she  hesitated — "he  cares  for  me  now  more 
— at  least,  in  a  way  you  never  did." 

He  had  opportunity  for  protest,  but  lay  silent. 

"When  we  were  engaged,  I  used  to  ask  myself  what 
I  liked  about  him.  Sometimes  I  thought  it  was  his 
steady  eyes;  but  now  I  see  them  as  dull  and  colourless, 
knowing  yours.  And  again  it  was  his  strength,  but  I 
hated  that  after  I  knew  you.  He  is  good.  He  gave  me 
all  he  had.  Why  couldn't  I  go  on  caring  for  him  to  the 
end  of  our  days  ?  .  .  .  You  came,  and  at  first  I  laughed 
to  myself  at  your  defects.  I  said  you  were  little  and 
ugly,  and  everything  that  I  did  not  like;  but  it  was  all 
a  sham,  to  hide  from  myself  that  there  was  some  qual- 
ity in  you  that  called  forever  to  me,  something  that  I 
couldn't  escape.  But  as  for  Andrew " 

He  had  to  prompt  her:  "Well?" 

"When  we  were  married,  I  found  out  what  it  was  I 
had  loved.  I'm  being  honest  now.  I  loved  his  love  of 
me.  I  believe  many  women  marry  for  that." 

"But  what  does  it  all  come  to?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  want  to  know;  I  want  to  sum  it 
up.  Why  couldn't  I  stay  in  the  safe  circle  of  his  affec- 
tion? Why  did  my  soul  go  out  to  you  ...  ?" 

"A  miserable  piddling  ugly  little  scribbler.  ..." 

She  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  lips. 

"I  don't  see  where  it  was  wrong — where  it  is  wrong 
191 


Folly 

now.  How  could  I  help  coming?  But  now — O  Hal, 
Hal — the  comfort  I  thought  to  bring  you  is  no  comfort, 
my  love  is  helpless.  ..." 

He  tried  to  soothe  her:  "Considering  how  you  dose 
me  and  feed  me  ..." 

"  Not  that  way.   Don't  talk  that  way.  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  Could  you  bear  it  better  if  I  tell  you  the  truth  of  the 
situation  as  I  see  it?" 

He  read  assent  in  her  pale  uplifted  face,  and  con- 
tinued slowly:  "To  my  thinking,  each  body-cell  has 
its  corresponding  spiritual  manifestation.  A  man  is  a 
commune  of  physical  forces,  a  plexus  of  soul-life  inex- 
tricably tangled,  mutually  dependent.  And  when  de- 
cay crowds  out  the  one,  the  other  flickers  away  spark 
by  spark." 

"  And  after  ?  You  leave  me  no  hope,"  she  whispered ; 
then  suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  but  with- 
out weeping.  "I  can't — bear  it." 

He  gathered  his  failing  strength  into  a  fierce  "You 
can.  Nothing  is  unbearable,  once  it  is  done."  With  an 
effort  he  raised  himself  to  look  at  her  face.  "But  it's 
killing  you  to  see  me  go  off." 

"No.  .  .  ." 

''That  it  might  come  quickly  1"  he  muttered,  and 
fell  back,  gasping. 

There  was  a  silence  while  she  cut  the  offending 
fringe  into  fragments.  He  turned  away  from  her,  with 
indistinct  words  that  she  did  not  hear:  "Even  a  beast 

crawls  away  somewhere  to  die  alone." 

192 


Folly 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  asked;  and  grew  suddenly 
aware  that  he  was  struggling  for  breath. 

It  was  horrible.  For  a  moment  she  was  too  para- 
lyzed to  rush  to  the  bell.  When  she  stirred  he  caught 
her  back  in  a  sort  of  frenzy. 

"No" — it  was  a  sign  rather  than  a  word.  "Go — 
away" — she  saw  the  words,  even  if  she  did  not  hear 
them. 

In  answer  to  her  appealing  arms  there  was  only  that 
terrible  word :  ' '  Away ! ' ' 

When  she  understood  that  he  wanted  to  be  alone  in 
his  agony,  she  went  outside  and  stood  at  the  door 
listening,  and  in  a  blind  way  praying,  until  the  room 
was  still  again. 

Then  she  dared  not  enter  until  she  heard  his  voice 
speaking  her  name.  Fearfully  she  opened  the  door 
and  seeing  his  outstretched  hand,  ran  across  to  him 
with  a  pitiful  cry:  "You  should  not  have  shut  me  out 
— you  should  not!" 

"It  is  kinder  to  us  both,"  said  he  gently,  "that  you 
should  be  away  when  such  things  happen.  Always — 
until  to-day — I  have  been  quick  enough.  ..." 

"But  suppose.  ..." 

"We'll  not  suppose." 

"No,  you  are  right,"  she  said  quietly.  "We'll  not 
suppose.  I  must  obey  you  in  all  things." 

She  passed  her  hand  lightly,  caressingly,  across  his 
brow,  but  he  made  no  response  by  word  or  look.     He 
was  given  over  wholly  to  pain. 
13  193 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  OTHER  WOMAN. 

THERE  came  storms  late  in  March,  and  the  sea  beat 
a  heavy  surf  along  the  plage,  while  the  wind  twanged 
wild  music  from  peak  to  peak  of  the  mountains.  But 
it  was  on  one  of  these  inclement  days  that  Gore,  who 
had  been  lying  silent  and  almost  impenetrable  to 
Folly's  utmost  efforts,  suddenly  roused  himself  and 
declared  that  business,  more  or  less  important,  but 
hitherto  forgotten,  called  him  into  the  town. 

"No,"  he  said  in  answer  to  her  unspoken  appeal, 
"I  don't  want  you  this  time,  my  dear.  Call  one  of 
those  fiacre- things,  if  you  like;  it  will  take  me  safely 
enough  where  I  want  to  go;  and  when  I  come  back,  if 
you  have  been  very  good,  I  may  tell  you  what  I  have 
been  up  to.  But  it's  not  a  matter  for  you  to  meddle 
with." 

She  made  little  protest;  she  was  becoming  used  to 
sitting  outside  the  door  of  his  mind.  She  arranged 
everything  that  she  could  devise  for  his  comfort,  and 
let  him  go. 

Afterwards  she  tried  to  read  in  the  sitting-room;  but 
194 


Folly 

book  after  book  fell  from  her  lap,  and  she  sat  watching 
the  wind-beaten  yellow  sea  until  she  had  fear  of  her 
desolation.  She  tried  her  bedroom,  but  this  was  even 
more  forlorn.  With  a  sudden  resolve  that  was  almost 
instinctive,  she  rose  and  went  along  the  passage  to 
Haldane's  door.  There  she  paused  and  was  about  to 
knock,  but  smiled  at  her  own  foolishness  in  forgetting 
that  he  was  away,  and  still  rather  timidly  went  in. 

It  was  the  green  arm-chair  that  she  wanted,  and  the 
smell  of  the  cigarette-smoke  that  was  so  associated  with 
his  presence.  Sitting  there  and  dreaming,  as  he  was 
wont  to  sit  and  dream,  she  was  conscious  of  a  respite  in 
her  trouble,  of  a  momentary  comfort  that  repaid  her 
in  part  for  the  care  and  suffering  she  had  endured 
for  his  sake. 

After  a  time  she  found  herself  staring  at  the  window 
across  the  street,  closed  against  the  wind,  yet  revealing 
the  figure  of  the  neighbour- woman  of  whom  Haldane 
had  told  her  his  fancies.  She  found  herself  wondering 
how  long  the  creature  had  been  sitting  so  erect  and 
still.  She  could  not  be  asleep?  or  dead?  A  mass  of 
white  needlework  lay  before  her  on  the  table;  but  she 
did  not  move  to  touch  it,  or  stir  from  her  stiff  attitude, 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Folly  grew  anxious  and  tried  to  avoid  watching,  and 
to  think  of  other  things.  She  had  had  a  letter  that 
morning  from  Mabel  Patrick;  and  by  its  happy  tone 
she  knew  that  Gregory  had  returned,  and  the  wooing 
was  once  more  on.  She  was  not  jealous — but,  rather, 

195 


Folly 

glad — of  their  happiness.  Mabel  could  make  a  man 
Very  comfortable  by  his  own  fireside,  while  she — she 
had  a  stinging  pang  at  the  thought  that  perhaps  after 
all  she  had  hurt  Haldane  more  than  she  had  helped. 
Perhaps  something  might  have  been  done — they  might 
have  gone  to  Paris — they  might  still  go  to  Paris,  only 
Gregory  had  been  so  sure — they  had  all  been  so  sure — 
and  Haldane  himself  had  been  so  indignant,  so  upset, 
at  the  bare  suggestion  of  using  her  money  that  way 
— why,  he  would  not  even  let  her  pay  the  bills  here. 
.  .  .  Still,  she  might  have  insisted  .  .  .  even  in  a 
hopeless  case.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  woman!  The  woman! 
Would  she  never  move? 

Haldane  had  been  away  an  hour  and  three  quarters. 
He  would  be  tired  certainly.  The  exertion  might  have 
overcome  him — might  have  brought  on  syncope.  .  .  . 
And  yet  she  could  not  have  prevented  him  from  going. 
When  his  will  was  bent  upon  a  thing,  or  against  a  thing, 
it  was  not  hi  her  power  to  divert  it.  ...  She  told  her- 
self forlornly — and  no  doubt  it  was  the  truth — that  this 
was  why  she  had  been  in  the  end  submissive  to  give  up 
all  hope  of  a  cure,  and  to  take  the  days  with  him  as 
they  came. 

She  paced  the  floor  with  increasing  anxiety.  Should 
she  go  in  search  of  him,  and  where  and  how  ?  She  got 
her  hat  and  long  cloak  and  returned  to  the  window, 
looking  up  the  wind-swept  street.  But  then  again  her 
eyes  were  drawn  across  the  way;  and  full  of  an  unrea- 
sonable irritation  against  the  motionless  figure,  on  a 

196 


Folly 

sudden  impulse  she  ran  downstairs  and  across  the 
cobbles,  and  up  the  rat-eaten  mouldy  steps  on  the  other 
side,  to  the  door  that  she  judged  should  be  the  right 
one;  there  knocked  and  knocked  in  vain,  until  at  the 
last  pressure  of  her  knuckles  the  weak  spring  gave 
way  and  the  door  opened  inward. 

She  had  known  what  the  room  would  be  like,  even 
to  the  baby  on  the  bed  and  the  unfinished  garments 
scattered  about  on  the  chairs.  But  the  woman  by  the 
window,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  clasped  hands, 
did  not  turn  or  move. 

A  moment  Folly  looked  at  her,  noting  that  the  ra- 
diant crown  of  hair,  only  a  little  paler  than  the  heavy 
drop  ear-rings  that  fell  against  the  tawny  cheek  was 
indeed,  as  Haldane  had  said,  like  enough  to  her  own. 
Then  she  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  and  the 
woman  looked  up,  heavy-eyed,  without  surprise  or 
question. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Folly,  in  her  broken 
Spanish. 

"  Nothing,  sefiora,  nothing."  The  answer  was  in  the 
soft  mumble  of  one  more  accustomed  to  Basque  than 
to  the  resonant  tongue  of  Castile. 

"  Are  you  ill?" 

"No,  se flora."  She  was  almost  sulky;  but  as  she 
turned  away  to  the  window,  perhaps  to  escape  the 
stranger's  gaze,  Folly  saw  that  she  had  wept  until  her 
cheeks  were  swollen  and  her  eyes  would  scarcely  open. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  urged  Folly. 
197 


Folly 

"The  senora  knows  that  there  is  a  hospital  in  the 
Calle  Pamplona?  I  went  there  this  morning.  ..." 

"Yes?    Yes?"  urged  Folly. 

"My  God,  we  shall  starve — the  three  of  us — the 
baby  and  the  little  one  that  is  to  come  !  They  told  me 
I  must  not  work  at  the  machine  for  months;  and  I  am 
a  shirt-maker.  Senora,  to  make  them  by  the  hand  .  .  . 
that  is  impossible. " 

"And  your  husband?"  asked  Folly,  and  would  have 
liked  to  take  the  words  back. 

"Me?"  said  the  woman  simply.  "I  have  no  hus- 
band." 

And  Folly  waited,  seeing  that  more  was  to  come. 

"He  is  a  poor  man,  sefiora,  and  he  has  a  family  of 
his  own;  but  he  has  always  been  good  to  us  and  given 
us  what  he  could  spare.  He  paid  for  the  machine  here 
that  I  might  get  work,  so  that  we  should  never 
starve.  But  now  he  is  gone." 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  so  slowly  that  they 
almost  seemed  to  furrow  their  way.  She  caught  them 
on  her  wrist,  and  wiped  them  off  quickly  as  if  she 
knew  that  they  would  sting. 

"And  you  have  no  friends?" 

"No,  senora." 

"None?" 

"  My  mother  is  dead.  My  father  is  a  respectable 
man,  and  has  a  wine-shop  in  Deva.  His  family 
are  neighbours,  and  that  is  why  he  brought  me  away 
here  .  .  .  and  at  first  he  paid  the  rent,  but 

198 


Folly 

now.  ...  It  is  two  years  since  first  I  came  to  Es- 
pinal." 

"And  could  you  not  go  into  the  hospital?"  suggested 
Folly  timidly. 

The  woman  shook  her  head  and  spread  out  her 
palms. 

"But  what  will  you  do?" 

The  Basque  woman  had  no  answer  to  that. 

With  a  sudden  memory  of  Haldane,  Folly  went  to 
the  window,  opened  it  and  from  the  balcony  looked  up 
the  street;  but  a  gust  of  wind  drove  her  within.  The 
woman  paid  no  attention  to  her  action. 

"You  must  rouse  yourself,"  said  Folly  sharply. 

"Yes,  seftora,  yes  " — but  the  tone  was  lifeless. 

Thereupon  the  baby  set  up  a  shrill  wail,  but  his 
mother  sat  plucking  at  her  apron  as  if  she  had  not 
heard. 

So  Folly  lifted  the  strong-legged  black-eyed  child  and 
set  him  upon  her  knee,  where  he  at  once  began  raven- 
ously to  gnaw  at  her  chain. 

"He  is  hungry.    You  must  feed  him,"  urged  Folly. 

"What  matter,  if  he  must  starve  sooner  or  later?" 
came  the  apathetic  answer. 

And  Folly  looked  down  at  the  youngster  as  he  twined 
his  fat  brown  fist  round  one  of  her  fingers  and  drew  it 
to  his  mouth.  He  was  just  such  a  ruddy  solemn-eyed 
infant  as  Murillo  painted  many  a  time  among  his 
cherubs.  So  looking,  she  tried  to  harden  her  heart 
against  the  sinner.  The  woman  had  been  comfortable 

and  respectable,  and  she  had  staked  her  all  on  a  chance 

199 


Folly 

of  happiness,  and  had  lost.  Let  her  pay,  then,  as  others 
must  pay.  But  the  innocent  child — and  the  unborn? 

"Have  you  been  happy?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  and  her  face  changed,  as  if 
for  a  moment  a  light  had  passed  over  it.  She  thought 
it  worth  while — perhaps  it  compensated  even  for  such 
despair  as  this.  .  .  . 

She  rose  and  put  the  child  into  its  mother's  arms. 
"And  you  don't  know  where  he  is  now?" 

"But  yes — in  America.  I  cannot  say  the  long  name 
of  the  place  I  must  write  to  sometimes.  Three  months 
and  more  he  is  gone.  He  will  be  rich  one  day,  and  then 
he  will  return  and  give  money  to  the  Church.  ..." 

"And  you  will  be  happy  again,"  concluded  Folly 
sadly. 

"  I  do  not  know,  senora.  That  rests  with  the  Saints 
and  the  Holy  Mother.  But  I  wait  and  I  hope.  ..." 

And  now  she  seemed  to  be  forgetting  her  immediate 
troubles. 

"But  will  not  his  family  go  out  to  him  instead?" 
asked  Folly. 

"Sometimes  he  writes  that  it  must  be  so.  I  cannot 
say.  But  I  do  not  think  of  that.' 

"I  will  see  to  it  that  you  do  not  starve,"  said  Folly 
slowly.  "Come  to  us — over  the  way — until  you  can 
work  again.  It  is  not  fair  that  they  should  suffer." 

The  woman  fell  on  her  knees  in  a  passion  of  weeping, 
and  clung  about  Folly's  skirts.  "May  all  the  Saints 
pour  blessings  on  you  and  your  husband!" 

200 


Polly 

Folly  frowned  as  she  stood  in  the  bare  room,  tall  and 
stately,  with  her  long  black  cloak  gathered  about  her, 
and  her  wide  black  hat  shading  her  delicate  pinched 
face.  Honesty  demanded  confession,  she  was  think- 
ing; and  after  a  time  said  coldly:  "Thank  you.  But 
he  is  not  my  husband." 

"Ah" — a  light  broke  over  the  woman's  face.  "That 
is  better  for  me.  That  is  why  you  understand  and 
have  mercy." 

But  Folly  drew  sharply  back.  "No,  I  don't  know 
that  I  do  ...  I  can  only  guess  ..." 

The  Basque  studied  her  wistfully,  then  held  up  the 
baby  towards  her.  "May  God  send  you  this  comfort, 
sefiora;  and  then  you  will  know.  ..." 

But  Folly  drew  back  still  further,  with  a  little  cry; 
and  the  woman,  thinking  that  she  had  presumed,  laid 
the  child  on  the  floor,  so  that  it  touched  the  hem  of 
Folly's  skirt.  So  kneeling,  she  lifted  up  her  hands  in 
prayer  to  the  Holy  Mother.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  hush!"  cried  Folly.  "You  don't  know"— 
the  sentence  ended  in  a  sob. 

But  the  woman  prayed  with  all  her  heart. 


201 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  CASE  OF  THE  NEIGHBOUR. 

AFTER  all,  she  had  not  heard  the  clatter  and  tinkle  of 
the  mules  that  brought  back  the  fiacre,  and  she  was 
amazed  and  relieved  to  find  Haldane  writing  at  the 
bureau  in  their  sitting-room. 

"So  you  ran  away?"  he  began,  as  if  to  forestall  any 
similar  charge  from  her. 

"Yes.  I  was  so  tired  watching  for  you,  and  fearing 
something  might  have  happened.  I  have  been — gos- 
sipping — with  your  neighbour  across  the  street." 

"Have  you  now?"  He  turned  smiling,  and  pushed 
aside  his  pen  and  paper  as  if  the  writing  were  of  no 
importance.  "  Tell  me  about  her." 

"Yes,  presently.  You  are  quite  all  right?  Can  I 
get  you  anything?" 

He  whistled  a  moment,  jingling  keys  and  coins  in 
his  pockets.  "I  intended  to  buy  some  cigarettes  and 
forgot  all  about  it." 

She  opened  one  of  the  table  drawers.  "But  I  told 
you  this  morning  I  had  put  a  fresh  box  here." 

She  brought  him  one  and  offered  a  light,  and  con- 
tinued standing  by  him,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

202 


Folly 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  will  consider  that  I  have 
been  good  enough.  ..." 

"  Can't  say  till  I  hear  what  you  have  been  up  to." 

She  came  to  the  point  at  once:  "Well,  that  woman, 
you  know — she  isn't  married.  And  the  man  has  de- 
serted her.  She  has  barely  been  able  to  keep  from 
starving;  and  now  she  is  ill  and  can't  work  much  for 
a  time.  ..." 

"Can't  the  man  be  found?" 

"He  is  in  America.  And  he  has  a  family  in  Deva. 
And  there  will  be  another  child  soon.  So  I.  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course  you  did.    To  her  great  gain." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Look  at  the  way  now  things  come  about.  He  makes 
a  home  for  her  and  deserts  her.  She  has  a  bad  time. 
You  step  in  and  act  good  angel.  And  the  world  spins 
merrily  on." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  think  about  it?"  She  crossed 
the  room  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  windows,  looking 
out  at  the  stormy  sea.  "Do  you  suppose  he  reasoned 
it  all  through  before  he  decided  to  give  her  up?" 

"Hardly.  But  he  doubtless  persuaded  himself — 
and  her — that  he  was  acting  for  the  best.  And  Provi- 
dence— or  luck — sent  you." 

"He  stole  from  her  everything  that  she  had,  and  left 
her  alone,"  said  Folly  bitterly. 

He  turned  a  shade  paler,  and  fumbled  with  the 
cigarettes  and  matches  before  he  found  words:  "Does 

she  take  it  so  badly  then?" 

203 


Folly 

She  hesitated,  remembering  the  woman's  change  of 
manner  when  help  had  been  offered. 

"Has  she  had  nothing  out  of  it,  and  is  she  incon- 
solable even  now?"  he  followed  up  his  advantage. 

She  was  honest:  "No.  She  has  the  baby,  and  she 
hopes.  ..." 

She  stopped,  not  seeing  what  in  her  words  could 
have  brought  that  grey  look  over  his  face. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  reassured  her.  "I  haven't  had 
such  an  outing  for  weeks.  But  I  shall  be  the  better  for 
it  afterward.  I  must  take  another  soon,  and  you  shall 
go  with  me.  Some  jolly  excursion  among  the  moun- 
tains— eh?  I  shall  be  able  to  get  about  more  with  the 
turning  of  the  year;  I'm  a  good  deal  stronger  to-day 
as  it  is.  ...  To  return  to  that  woman:  you  were  say- 
ing? Ah,  yes.  Anything  that  would  take  her  out  of 
herself  would  serve  the  same  purpose,  wouldn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  slowly.  "And  what 
else  would  take  her  out  of  herself  ?  " 

"Oh,  you  women,  you  women!"  It  was  a  weak 
evasion  and  both  knew  it. 

"Nothing  would  take  me  out  of  myself  or  console 
me  in  such  a  case,"  she  insisted. 

"You  are  very  young  yet,  Folly,"  he  said,  after  a 
silence,  "and  you  lack  imagination.  Think  of  the 
years  and  years  before  you.  ..." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  don't  want  to  think  about." 

"You'll  be  happy  when  you  grow  old," 

"It  may  be  so." 

204 


Folly 

"I  understand.  It  doesn't  concern  you  now;  noth- 
ing does  but  the  present.  I  suppose  a  perpetual  tooth- 
ache would  kill  a  man's  hopes  of  immortality.  Every- 
thing goes  down  before  pain;  at  least — does  it?  But 
there  is  a  remedy." 

"Well,  the  remedy?"  she  faced  him,  breathing 
quickly. 

"  Draw  the  tooth.    One  sharp  wrench — then  peace." 

"It's  a  beautiful  figure,"  said  she  ironically,  "but 
what  is  the  tooth  in  the  case  of  our  neighbour  ?  " 

"It  doesn't  apply  correctly,"  he  granted,  "but  on  the 
whole,  the  man  seems  to  be  the  tooth;  and  he  has 
drawn  himself — by  emigrating." 

"Heavens,  is  that  your  doctrine?"  she  spoke  hur- 
riedly, as  in  a  sort  of  fear. 

"If  they  were  unhappy  together?"  he  suggested. 

"They  were  not — she  was  not.  But  it  is  possible 
that  he  grew  tired  of  her." 

"We  don't  know  enough  of  the  circumstances  to 
come  out  anywhere  in  our  argument.  However,  if  in 
the  long  run  she  is  not  unhappy.  ..." 

"She  lives  on  hope.  But  in  her  place  I  should  go 
mad,  I  think." 

"Even  with  the  child?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Perhaps — partly — because  of  the  child,"  she  con- 
fessed. 

A  great  relief  shone  from  his  face;  he  wiped  his  fore- 
head, and  for  a  moment  held  his  handkerchief  there 

without  speaking.    But  at  last:   "I  feared  you  would 

205 


Folly 

think  otherwise.  And  you  see  there  are  so  many  other 
things  that  can  take  one  outside  one's  self.  ..." 

"Don't  go  over  them,"  she  interrupted  brusquely. 
"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  them.  We'll  consider  the 
woman  saved — and  happy,  if  you  like  .  .  .  since  I  am 
to  supply  her  with  bread  and  cheese.  But  how  about 
the  man?" 

"Ah,  there  you  see,  we  don't  know.  He  may  be  a 
villain,  or  he  may  be  only  a  poor  wretch  who  could  find 
no  other  way  out." 

She  was  silent,  looking  seaward,  and  seeming  to 
listen  to  the  boom  of  the  surf. 

"Take  another  case,"  he  persisted.  "If  you  had  a 
finger  almost  cut  off,  hanging  by  a  strip  of  skin,  would 
you  let  it  be,  or  call  in  a  surgeon  and  try  to  heal  the 
wound?" 

"What  are  you  getting  at?" — she  turned  again,  in  a 
sort  of  fright. 

"Never  mind,  then.  Let's  talk  of  something  else. 
Oh,  you  wanted  to  know  where  I've  been?  Do  you?" 

"Not  especially,"  she  answered,  from  the  window. 
"Not  unless  you  want  to  tell  me." 

"I  must  want  to  tell  you,  I  suppose,  although  it's 
only  a  stupid  matter  of  business.  Come  here,  girl,  and 
sit  by  the  fire.  What's  the  good  of  mooning  over  that 
beastly  sea?" 

"I  wasn't  mooning;  I  was  only  trying  to  imagine 
how  she  felt  when  she  knew  he  was  sailing  on  it — 

away  from  her  forever — that's  all.    You  want  me  to 

206 


Folly 

come  over?  Well,  what's  the  stupid  business  then  that 
I  wasn't  to  meddle  with  or  know  about  until  it  was 
finished?" 

He  spoke  lightly:  "A  business  that  every  man  ought 
to  attend  to  early  in  life,  and  that  most  men  leave  until 
late.  I've  been  making  my  will." 

She  bit  her  lip  for  self-control,  and  looked  at  the  red 
charcoal. 

"My  father's  money  all  goes,  of  course,  to  that 
perverted  charity;  but  my  own,  little  as  it  is — I  have 
left  that  to  you,  of  course.  You  know  how  it  was 
earned,  and  you  shall  say  what  is  to  be  done  with  it. 
But  there  is  one  condition.  ..." 

"Must  we  speak  of  such  things  now?"  she  inter- 
rupted piteously. 

"Now  or  sometime.  Better  now.  You  are  to  have 
all  the  manuscripts  and  notes,  but  not  to  publish  them 
— understand?  Keep  them  as  long  as  you  will,  and 
destroy  them  before  you  die." 

"I  am  jealous  for  your  name,"  she  said  earnestly. 

"It  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  little  I  have  finished. 
This  last  year's  crop  must  not  live  after  the  warped 
and  thwarted  mind  that  produced  it.  Or  would  you 
rather  I  should  destroy  them  myself?" 

"Oh,  no,  no — mine,"  she  whispered. 

He  went  over  to  her  and  kissed  her;  and  they  had 
a  moment  of  understanding  and  peace. 

But  then,  after  a  struggle  for  self-control,  she  fell 

a-sobbing,  and  he  had  to  comfort  her  as  best  he  could. 

207 


Folly 

"You  don't  take  it  properly.  Why  don't  you  admire 
my  enterprise  in  accomplishing  the  feat,  witnesses  and 
all,  in  this  unbusiness-like  land  of  Spain?" 

"You  might  have  let  me  help,"  she  said,  "or  you 
might  have  let  it  slide.  Hal — shall  we  go  up  to  Paris — 
now  that  you  are  a  little  stronger — to  see — to  see  .  .  .?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  any  more,"  he  said, 
with  unusual  sharpness. 

"But  we're  doing  nothing!" 

"We've  done  everything." 

"Are  you  very  sure?" 

"Sure?" — he  laughed  it  aside.  "Everything  short 
of  miracle — that's  the  only  thing  left.  From  your  point 
of  view,  it's  reasonable  to  keep  on  trying,  I  suppose" — 
he  seemed  to  forget  himself  a  little — "  but  as  for  me,  I'm 
tired  of  the  fuss.  I  want  to  be  let  alone." 

There  crept  over  her  the  slow  conviction  that  the 
more  she  strove  to  comfort  him  with  her  love  in  his 
hour  of  need,  the  further  he  slipped  away  into  the 
shadow,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  utmost  she  could  do. 

It  was  perhaps  with  a  sense  of  compunction  that  he 
again  bent  over  her  and  stroked  her  hair,  for  indeed 
her  case  was  like  to  approach  that  of  the  neighbour. 


208 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AT  THE  SHRINE. 

THE  last  week  in  April,  Espinal  rejoices  in  the  fes- 
tival of  Our  Lady  of  the  Thorn-tree.  All  the  balconies  are 
heavy  with  flowers,  and  draped  with  banners  and  gay 
carpets.  The  cathedral  bells  fill  the  air  with  their 
jangling,  and  from  distant  Higuer  comes  the  faint 
single  peal  of  the  Chapel  that  crowns  it.  Little 
girls  are  tricked  out  with  beads,  and  their  brothers  strut 
about  with  half -munched  pastries  in  their  hands.  All 
the  world  dances  under  the  limes.  .  .  . 

But  it  is  the  procession  of  the  Virgin  that  brings 
town-folk  and  country-folk  to  squeeze  one  another 
along  the  foot-wide  pavements  of  the  Calle  Mayor, 
while  Our  Lady  is  borne  from  her  shrine  on  the  hill  to 
grace  with  her  presence  the  cathedral  of  the  city  she 
brought  into  being;  and  afterwards  returns  as  she  came, 
followed  by  a  host  of  pilgrims  eager  to  kiss  the  sacred 
thorn,  and  to  dip  into  the  eternal  spring  of  healing  that 
flows  from  beneath  her  altar. 

Folly  was  leaning  from  a  balcony  of  the  fonda,  this 

too  decked  out  by  the  pious  fingers  of  their  landlady, 
14  209 


Folly 

when  she  spied,  afar  off,  the  hillside  streaked  with  scar- 
let and  purple  and  gold  that  moved  cityward,  to  the 
hilarious  outcry  of  bells. 

A  while  she  watched  in  silence,  then  called  over  her 
shoulder:  "Haldane,  will  you  come  and  see?" 

"Is  it  worth  the  effort?"  he  asked.  "I'm  deep  in 
my  book.  " 

But  presently  he  came  and  stood  by  her  side  as  the 
chanting  ecclesiastics,  with  the  jewel-decked  canopy,  ' 
passed  beneath.  Together  they  watched  until  the  last 
vestment  had  turned  into  the  alley  of  tamarisks  that 
leads  to  the  cathedral,  with  the  people  pressing  close 
behind  to  get  the  Archbishop's  blessing. 

"I  wish  we  had  thought  of  it  sooner;  we  might  have 
gone,  too,"  said  Folly.  "A  good  man's  blessing  would 
have  done  us  no  harm." 

"We  might  still  join  the  pilgrimage" — Gore  spoke 
absently,  his  eyes  roving  here  and  there  among  the 
crowd — "if  you  incline  to  be  religious." 

She  laid  on  his  arm  a  hand  that  shook  with  nervous 
excitement.  "Laugh  at  me  if  you  will,  but  I  do  want 
to  go — I  want  you  to  go.  I  want  you  to  try  the  spring. 
You  said  the  other  day  that  there  was  nothing  could 
save  you  but  miracle.  Since  then  I  have  prayed 
night  and  day.  .  .  .  Call  it  madness,  if  you  will;  but 
let  us  try.  ...  if  you  love  me,  Hal.  .  .  .  Who 
knows  .  .  .?" 

"Poor  Folly — to  what  lengths  would  you  not  go?" 

he  said  sadly,  rather  to  himself  than  to  her. 

210 


Polly 

"And  I  have  been  reading.  I  have  read  the  Gospels 
and  the  Acts,  and  other  books  about  those  that  are 
helped  still  to-day;  and  there  have  been  many  cured 
that  were  much  worse  than  you." 

"No  doubt,"  he  granted  idly.  "But  faith  is  the  first 
essential." 

"And  you ?"  she  could  not  say  more. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  I  might  have  faith  for  you.  I  could — I  can — 
so  easily,  if  it  would  make  you  well!" 

He  smiled  at  her  logic.  "Faith  is  uncompromising 
— and  before  the  proof." 

She  did  not  stop  to  consider  what  he  meant.  "You 
will  do  this  one  thing  for  me?"  she  pleaded. 

To  himself  he  said :  "  It  would  be  a  test  of  my  strength 
— show  me  at  least  where  I  stand."  And  aloud: 
"Folly — more  folly!  But  if  it  would  give  you  any 
peace.  .  .  .  We  might  drive  up  and  see  what  it  is  like 
there?" 

As  she  was  putting  on  her  hat,  struck  with  a  sudden 
thought  she  unlocked  her  strong-box  and  took  out  gold- 
pieces  enough  to  crowd  and  weight  her  purse. 

They  drove  through  a  ruined  gate  off  the  route  of 
the  procession,  not  altogether  escaping  curiosity;  but, 
as  soon  as  they  had  passed  beyond  the  moat,  found 
themselves  in  the  country  among  the  upspringing 
maize  and  bending  poplars,  alone  with  the  larks. 

Slowly  they  wound  along  between  the  apple-orchards 

and  tillage  and  pasture,  up  the  hillside  sprinkled  over 

211 


Folly 

with  the  many-coloured  slant-roofed  timbered  Basque 
houses,  all  the  way  the  sea  being  to  their  left,  and  the 
purple  mountains,  chain  beyond  chain,  to  their  right, 
until  they  reached  a  level  place  where  the  broad  road 
begins  to  zigzag  sharply  backwards  and  forwards 
across  the  steep  slope,  and  where  an  ancient  narrow 
way  blocked  with  great  square  stones,  incredibly  un- 
even in  their  relations  to  one  another,  and  worn  smooth 
by  thousands  of  feet,  points  straight  up  to  the  spire  of 
the  shrine,  passing  as  it  ascends  the  several  stations  of 
the  Cross. 

Would  their  Excellencies  proceed  by  the  road,  asked 
the  driver,  or  would  they  prefer  to  have  him  wait  while 
they  walked  up  the  old  way  of  the  pilgrims  ? 

Folly  glanced  quickly  at  Gore,  and  he  read  her  un- 
spoken wish.  To  please  her  he  bade  the  driver  wait, 
and  offered  her  his  hand,  saying: 

"Now  we  take  to  the  foot-path,  the  old  patient  way 
for  humble-minded  sinners  like  ourselves — eh,  Folly?" 

But  after  all  it  proved  nearly  too  much  for  him.  It 
was  a  jagged  and  narrow  path,  steep  as  befits  a  road 
to  virtue,  he  commented  with  a  laugh,  when  he  was 
forced  to  rest. 

"Look" — he  diverted  her  attention  from  himself  to 
two  hollowed-out  places  in  a  great  boulder  among  the 
artificially-laid  stones.  "The  pilgrims  all  tread  in  one 
another's  footsteps,  and  the  impression  is  as  of  one 
man,  isn't  it  ?  It  might  be  a  symbol  of  the  succession 
of  generations." 

212 


Polly 

"Shall  I  call  the  driver?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

But  he  would  not  listen  to  that;  and  in  the  end  they 
came  out  panting,  on  the  terrace  before  the  shrine. 

As  they  sat  on  the  low  stone  wall  under  a  shelter  of 
fir-trees,  they  could  see  the  returning  procession  as  a 
parti-coloured  streak  on  the  hill  below  the  city  wall. 

They  were  satisfied  to  wait  and  look  and  listen  as 
the  spectacle  drew  near;  and  as  they  sat  there,  talking 
little  and  in  low  tones,  they  heard  an  Adios  behind 
them  and  turning,  beheld  an  old  priest  whom  Folly 
at  once  greeted  as  the  confessor  of  the  Sisters  to  whom 
she,  at  her  first  coming,  had  gone  for  Spanish  lessons. 

"You  do  not  take  part  in  the  festival?"  asked  Gore, 
by  way  of  continuing  the  conversation. 

"Yes,  yes,  presently,  presently.  I  have  a  bad  foot 
and  it  is  a  long  walk  to  the  town."  He,  too,  sat  down 
on  the  parapet,  with  the  suffering  member  stretched 
out  to  its  own  easing.  "You  English  people,"  he  con- 
tinued, "are  usually  interested  in  our  churches.  You 
have  seen  the  Shrine?" 

Upon  their  negative  he  consoled  them:  "Another 
day  then,  when  there  is  no  feast.  You  are  Roman 
Catholics?" 

And  as  they  again  said  no,  he  mused  as  if  to  himself, 
with  genuine  compassion:  "What  a  pity!  What  a 
pity!" 

Then  Folly  plucked  up  her  courage  and  asked, 
flushing  hotly:  "Father,  is  it  true  that  only  Roman 

Catholics  are  healed  at  the  spring?" 

213 


Folly 

He  meditated  a  moment  before  he  answered:  "I 
never  heard  yet,  my  daughter,  that  grace  has  bounds 
or  limits." 

"Could  anyone  be  healed?" 

He  smiled  at  her  eagerness.  "If  he  had  faith?" 
He  put  his  answer  in  the  form  of  a  question. 

"  We — we — came — to-day —  ?  "    Speech  failed  her. 

But  he  seemed  to  understand,  for  at  that  he  looked 
serious  and  said  nothing. 

She  fumbled  in  her  purse  for  treasure,  but  he  stopped 
her  with  something  of  sternness:  "You  will  not  find, 
my  child,  that  Our  Lady  of  Thorns  sells  her  blessings." 

"For  your  poor" — she  was  faltering,  but  he  waved 
that  aside:  "Out  of  a  full  heart  shall  you  give.  .  .  . 
Come  in  with  the  others,  my  children  of  this  country; 
and  if  the  Holy  Mother  has  compassion  on  you  .... 
who  knows?"  He  smiled  and  with  a  salute,  strolled 
away. 

"He  is  a  good  man,"  she  whispered,  "and  he  be- 
lieves. You  will  try,  Haldane  ?  For  my  sake  ?  Oh,  I 
think  I  have  forgotten  how  to  pray!" 

She  leaned  against  him,  trembling;  and  so  they  sat 
in  silence  until  they  heard  the  breathless  chant  of  the 
pilgrims  climbing  the  difficult  way.  Then  they  rose 
and  went  forward  a  little  to  meet  them;  but  still 
looked  on  from  afar,  while  the  priests  and  choristers 
passed  from  the  sunlight  into  the  candle-lit  church. 
And  still  they  waited,  while  some  went  by  that  were 

lame,  and  others  that  were  bent,  and   shaken,  and 

214 


Folly 

scabbed  by  horrible  diseases;  and  some  that  were 
idiots,  with  death's  heads  that  wagged  and  grinned; 
and  some  that  were  blind;  and  some  that  were  carried 
by  two  or  three.  When  these  were  gone  within,  with  a 
great  band  of  friends  come  to  pray  with  them,  the  tiny 
church  was  full;  and  yet  outside  the  roadway  was  as 
crowded  with  spectators  as  if  the  number  were  un- 
diminished. 

The  two  who  stood  apart  listened  to  the  chant 
of  prayer  and  psalm,  within  and  without,  as  they 
watched  the  sun  sinking  in  a  lemon-coloured  sky 
streaked  and  blotched  with  cloud-masses  as  purple  as 

the  mountain-peaks  on  which  they  rested 

It  seemed  to  them  equally  impossible  to  go  in  and  to 
go  away. 

Presently  they  heard  the  click  of  an  iron  gate  and 
looking  down,  perceived  that  they  were  just  above  an 
outside  door  that  led  from  the  crypt.  Both  drew  back 
as  a  young  girl,  flushed  and  wet-eyed,  with  water- 
drops  on  her  dark  hair,  came  up  the  steps,  followed  by 
a  group  of  weeping  women. 

For  her  life,  Folly  could  not  have  refrained  from 
leaning  forward  with  the  hushed  cry:  "You — are 
you ?" 

The  girl  stopped  and  stared  and  shivered;  then  a 
light  came  over  her  face.  "Healed!"  she  whispered 
back;  then  broke  into  a  sweet  shrill  hymn  of  praise  to 
Her  that  had  wrought  the  wonder. 

At  this,  Folly  waited  no  longer,  but  seized  Gore's 
215 


Folly 

hand,  and  had  dragged  him  to  the  church  door  before 
he  realized  what  she  would  be  at. 

"No,  no," — he  frowned  at  her,  as  the  kneeling  crowd 
stirred  and  made  room  for  them. 

But  in  her  madness  was  an  impetus  that  brooked  no 
resistance.  People  bent  aside  for  them,  perhaps  divin- 
ing that  here  was  some  unusual  thing,  so  that  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  a  path  opened  before  them  as  they 
went,  until  they  found  themselves  at  the  top  of  the 
dimly-lighted  stairway  into  the  crypt,  on  which 
crouched,  knelt,  and  lay,  the  procession  of  those  going 
down  to  be  healed.  From  below  came  the  chanting  of 
the  priests  as  they  cried  for  mercy  on  the  sick;  from 
above,  the  responses  of  the  congregation,  shrill  with 
many  women's  voices,  quivering  with  excitement  and 
an  indefinable  suggestion  of  tears. 

Gore  perceived  that  there  was  no  restraining  Folly, 
carried  away  as  she  was  by  the  religious  ecstasy  of  the 
peasants  about  her;  and  half  sick,  half  disgusted,  yet 
unwilling  to  leave  her,  unable  to  drag  her  away,  he 
leaned  against  the  damp  wall,  and  watched  the  slow 
downward  progress  of  the  afflicted.  Presently  he  be- 
came conscious  that  the  step  below  him  was  empty  of 
the  leprous-looking  man  who  had  been  kneeling  there, 
and  that  two  bearers  with  a  paralytic  between  them 
were  pushing  hard  behind. 

Folly  turned  to  him  with  brilliant  eyes.  "  Come.  It 
can  do  no  harm." 

"Where  are  your  beads  and  your  mass-bpok?"  he 
216 


Folly 

whispered  back;  but  at  her  look,  suffered  himself  to 
follow  her  down  the  dark  way.  "  If  it  would  satisfy  her, 
why  not  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 

The  spring,  if  spring  there  were,  was  built  in  and 
roofed  over  with  a  golden  tabernacle.  Facing  the 
source  of  miracles  was  an  altar  surrounded  by  iron 
standards  filled  with  hundreds  of  tapers;  and  these 
filled  the  crypt  with  a  golden  haze,  and  were  reflected 
in  many  colours  in  the  jewels  of  the  Shrine.  The  yellow 
light  of  these  candles  innumerable  outlined  the  black 
frocks  and  sallow  faces  of  half  a  dozen  young  ecclesi- 
astics, who  with  outstretched  arms  monotonously — in- 
sistently— repeated  the  orisons  that  echoed  up  the 
stair-way.  An  old  priest — the  same  who  had  spoken 
to  the  strangers  on  the  terrace  outside — was  muttering 
some  ceremonial  procedure,  while  two  acolytes  were 
ready,  one  to  hand  out  a  cup  containing  the  precious 
liquor,  the  other  carrying  a  basin  and  napkin,  to  sprinkle 
or  to  lave,  as  the  father  might  direct. 

The  leper  was  turning  away  with  dripping  face  and 
hands,  when  Folly,  her  lips  parted  in  the  effort,  to  draw 
breath  calmly,  advanced  to  the  rings  of  candle-flame. 

The  acolytes  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  but  the  old 
priest  nodded  toward  the  man;  he  was  accustomed  to 
illness  in  many  forms. 

And  singularly  enough,  at  this  moment,  Gore's  one 
sensation  was  of  a  parching  thirst  that  seemed  to  swell 
his  tongue  and  intensify  the  aching  of  his  throat  an 

hundredfold.    He  had  no  more  hesitation  than  a  way- 

217 


Folly 

side  beggar  in  reaching  out  for  the  double-handled 
antique  silver  cup. 

The  sparkling  water — cold  and  faintly,  deliciously 
sweet — was  a  veritable  godsend  to  him;  but  almost  at 
once  he  found  himself  quelling  the  suspicion  that 
perhaps  it  was  medicated  to  produce  an  immediate 
effect  of  stimulation. 

When  he  turned  to  Folly,  however,  he  found  her 
kneeling  on  the  stones,  with  her  arms  outstretched  like 
those  of  the  young  priests,  and  her  lips  moving  in  re- 
sponse to  their  prayers. 

"Come,  come,"  he  muttered  roughly,  "it's  high 
time  we  got  away  from  this." 

They  stumbled  up  the  outside  stairway,  where  was 
now  assembled  a  little  awe-struck  crowd,  constantly 
recruited  from  the  worshippers  in  the  church,  to  watch 
the  return  of  the  healed  and  to  sing  praises  in  their 
behalf. 

They  made  no  difference  in  the  case  of  the  strangers; 
but  some  of  the  women  pressed  forward  and  demanded 
what  was  the  miracle  that  had  been  wrought. 

And  when  they  made  no  answer,  there  was  a  certain 
mumbling  of  discontent  among  the  old  people;  and  a 
rude  joke  or  two  passed  along  the  lips  of  the  young 
folk.  Therefore,  instead  of  making  their  way  onward 
through  the  crowd,  with  one  accord  they  faced  up  the 
hill;  and  leaving  the  road,  took  to  a  steep  narrow  path 
that  led  through  rock-strewn  heath  land  towards  a 
ruined  square  tower  on  the  summit,  erected  long  ago 

for  watching  or  defence. 

218 


Folly 

But  before  they  had  climbed  half  the  distance,  Gore 
dropped  exhausted  on  a  boulder;  and  Folly,  with  her 
shoulder  behind  him  for  support,  knelt  in  the  heather 
at  his  side.  She  slipped  her  hand  into  his  and  together 
they  gazed  at  the  shadowy  ranges  of  the  Pyrenees, 
from  the  green  foot-hills  in  the  plain  below  to  the  pur- 
ple peaks  that  vanished  among  the  approaching  clouds. 

Suddenly  she  released  her  hand  and  hid  her  face, 
saying  bitterly:  "The  fool — the  fool  I  am!" 

"It  was  rather  like  storming  the  gates  of  heaven," 
he  admitted. 

"It  was  that;  but  if  we  had  got  in — ah!  And  now 
we  shall  be  punished  for  our  presumption." 

"I  don't  know  what  made  me  drink,"  he  mused. 

"I — I  did,"  she  insisted.    "I  dragged  you  there." 

"  Perhaps — but  yes,  I  do  know  why  I  drank.  I  had 
a  deadly  thirst;  and  the  water  was  very  good." 

"Oh,  hush,  it's  blasphemy!" 

"Why  so?    I  may  be  the  better  for  it." 

"No,  no,  you  will  never  be  better,"  she  said,  in  low- 
voiced  despair. 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  what  did  you  expect  ?  A  cure  on 
the  spot?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  what  I  expected.  I 
am  at  my  wits'  end." 

"  Clearly.  Then,  can't  you  let  yourself  be  content  to 
let  things  work  themselves  out  as  they  must  ? " 

But  she  still  brooded:  "We  are  taught  to  believe  in 
miracles.  I  thought  this  was  a  supreme  test." 


219 


Folly 

"Miracles  there  are  undoubtedly,  but  they  happen 
in  the  soul;  and  the  soul  is  the  source  of  half  the 
maladies  of  mankind.  I  mean  it  literally.  And  these 
are  cured  by  faith.  But  with  me  it's  a  war  of  cell 
against  cell.  Like  must  meet  like  in  the  struggle 
for  life  and  death.  Hence,  faith  is  the  strong  op- 
ponent of  unfaith,  poison  of  poison,  microbe  of 
microbe.  And  we  live  or  die  by  the  winning  of  the 
stronger.  So  why  trouble  ?  .  .  .  You  must  bend  to  the 
inevitable." 

"No!"  flashed  from  her  lips,  her  eyes;  her  whole 
body  breathed  protest  unending. 

"No,  you  never  would,  I  suppose.  It  isn't  in  your 
nature.  You  possess  the  doubtful  virtue  of  not  know- 
ing when  you're  beaten." 

"Oh,  you  talk  of  virtue!"  she  cried  bitterly;  and 
then  turned  to  pleading:  " For  my  sake,  Hal,  don't  give 
up.  I  can't  stand  it.  You  are  all  I  have  or  want  in  the 
world." 

He  looked  at  her  sadly  enough,  his  exhilaration  fol- 
lowed by  a  profound  depression.  "  There  you  are  wrong 
— we  are  wrong;  you  should  have  or  want  other  things." 
He  put  his  arms  about  her.  "You  struggle  and  you 
struggle,  beating  your  wings  against  the  laws  that  cage 
us  all  in.  Give  over." 

She  clung  to  him,  breathing  hard.  "I  cannot  face 
the  thought  of  the  future." 

"You  need  not,  you  should  not.    The  angels  of  the 

future  are  jealous  of  the  treasure  they  guard."    He 

220 


Folly 

added  to  himself:  "But  it's  the  present  that's  killing 
her — God!  to  make  an  end  of  it!" 

"Up  to  to-day,"  she  continued,  "I  had  some  wild 
hope.  I  thought  that  Providence — something — would 
intervene — I  have  always  found  the  way  before.  ..." 

She  rose  as  if  to  continue  her  climb  to  the  tower  over- 
head, that  looked  still  as  inaccessible  as  it  had  seemed 
from  the  shrine  below.  But  after  a  few  steps  she 
stopped,  knee-deep  in  the  heather,  the  sea-wind  ruffling 
her  hair,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  mountains. 
"I  would  worship  any  God — any — that  would  save  us 
to  each  other!" 

He  made  no  answer.  She  turned  and  found  him 
struggling  for  breath. 

Her  arms  were  quickly  about  him,  but  with  a  gasp  or 
sign,  "Let  be,"  he  slipped  from  her  hold  down  among 
the  heather. 

She  looked  at  him,  with  a  strange  cold  sense  that  the 
inevitable  punishment  had  been  swift. 

Then  she  put  her  hands  to  her  mouth,  and  gave  a 
shrill  call  for  help — once — twice — which  brought  a 
herd-boy  running  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

With  a  kind  of  detached  interest,  she  watched  him 
crossing  himself  in  prayer,  as  she  set  forth  briefly  what 
had  happened  and  what  they  must  do. 

Gore  was  unconscious  when  they  lifted  him  between 
them,  and  bore  him  down  the  winding  path  to  the  de- 
serted road  that  led  to  the  shrine. 

Here,  when  her  desperate  strength  would  have  carried 
221 


Folly 

her  yet  further,  the  herd  looked  at  her  face  and  was 
wise.  He  insisted  that  they  lay  down  their  burden,  and 
that  she  keep  guard  while  he  went  for  help. 

He  had  not  gone  twenty  steps  before  he  encountered 
two  soldiers,  raw  conscripts  from  the  fort  over  the  hill, 
on  leave  to  see  the  fiesta. 

These  understood  and  were  quick  of  foot  and  hand; 
and  so  quietly  displaced  Folly,  and  left  the  herd  to 
return  to  his  goats. 

She  never  knew  what  she  said  to  them,  or  how  she 
rewarded  her  first  helper;  but  she  remembered  as  in  a 
dream  walking  between  throngs  of  people,  and  finding 
somehow,  somewhere,  the  waiting  cab.  And  she 
remembered  directing  the  men  to  put  up  the  hood  and 
to  place  Haldane  so  that  she  could  support  his  head; 
and  then  giving  them  something  that  turned  their  faces 
ruddy  with  delight. 

All  the  way  to  Espinal,  as  they  drove  between 
the  maize-fields,  she  found  herself  thinking  coldly 
that  this  was  the  end — it  was  surely  the  end,  and 

nothing  mattered And   there   crept   into   her 

mind  a  sort  of  dull  wonder  that  she  could  bear  it ' 
so  well. 

But  still  he  did  not  die;  and  as  they  drew  near  the 
city  walls,  while  she  was  chafing  his  hands,  he  returned 
to  a  show  of  consciousness. 

"For  my  sake,"  she  whispered,  with  white  lips. 
"Fight  for  it." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  dumb  reproach.   Had 
222 


Folly 

he  not  been  fighting  far  beyond  his  strength,  to  the 
limit  of  his  will,  these  last  six  months  ? 

"Did  you  think  I  was  done  for?"  he  got  out  pres- 
ently. 

"I  thought  it  was  my  punishment,"  she  said. 

"For  fighting  nature?  And  still  you  urge  me  on? 
How  many  more  times  do  you  want  to  go  through  with 
this — eh?  Do  you  suppose  it  will  become  easier  with 
repetition  ?  How  long ?  " 

"Oh,  hush,"  she  said.  "I  am  thankful  for  this  little 
gamed." 


223 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  FERRY. 

HE  was  really  wonderful,  she  told  him  almost  gaily, 
when  she  came  downstairs  the  day  after  the  festival 
and  found  him  already  at  his  desk. 

He  gave  brisk  replies  to  her  anxious  questions,  and 
even  teased  her  about  her  more  than  maternal  solici- 
tude. 

"You're  the  only  boy  I've  got,"  she  defended  her- 
self ;  and  that  put  an  end  to  his  joking. 

But  she  little  dreamed  what  was  in  his  mind,  as  he 
sat  apparently  absorbed  in  his  letters.  After  a  sleepless 
night,  during  which  he  had  revolved  a  score  of  times 
every  phase  of  their  situation  and  every  possible  way 
out  of  it,  he  rose  early  and  went  downstairs,  resolved 
that  never  again  should  she  have  to  pass  through  the 
experience  of  the  day  before;  and  found  on  the  table 
a  letter  from  Gregory  that  offered  a  solution.  "It 
would  be  barbarous,"  he  said  to  himself,  "yet  it  is  pos- 
sible— perhaps  the  only  way.  And  the  time  has  come." 

The  arresting  passage  in  the  letter  contained  only  a 

few  drily-stated  facts:    "Christie  is  at  Biarritz.    He 

224 


Folly 

gave  Mrs.  Patrick  his  address,  and  she  assures  me  that 
she  knows  he  intended  you  to  have  it.  I  don't  know 
how  she  knows;  but  she  insists  that  I  send  it  on  to  you. 
Make  what  you  will  of  it. " 

"I  must  think  it  well  over,"  he  mused;  but  for  a 
long  time  could  get  no  further  than:  "That  was  always 
the  stumbling-block — leaving  her  desperate  and  alone 
in  a  strange  land.  But  how  to  manage?" 

Unconsciously  Folly  helped  in  the  sealing  of  her  own 
future.  She  said: 

"I  have  a  letter  here  from  Mabel.  She  writes  that 
Gregory  knows  a  man  who  has  been  very  successful  hi 
treating — cases  like  yours.  Some  Frenchman — wait  a 
moment;  I'll  find  the  name.  He  has  recently  opened  a 
sanatorium  at  Elizondo.  Evidently  Gregory  approves 
the  plan,  or,  you  see,  Mabel  wouldn't  suggest  it." 

"That  we  go  there?"  he  asked.  Would  she  never 
understand  that  it  had  been  too  late  a  year  ago  ? 

"I  was  only  thinking  that,  since  you  are  better  this 
morning,  I  might  go  and  look  over  the  place.  I  could 
do  it  in  a  day ;  and  if  it  seems  advisable.  .  .  .  We  can't 
stay  here  much  longer — away  from  everything" — he 
interpreted  rightly  the  distress  in  her  voice;  in  the  event 
of  further  crises,  she  wanted  every  possible  means  of 
prolonging  life. 

It  was  fully  time  to  act,  he  thought,  studying  the 
Biarritz  address;  yesterday  had  proved  it.  Then  he 
said  aloud:  "It  might  be  a  good  plan.  You  will  go 

to-day  then?" 

15  225 


Folly 

He  gave  himself  up  to  a  mathematical  problem.  If 
she  should  depart  by  the  ten  o'clock  ferry  and  dili- 
gence, she  would  have  ample  time  for  the  one-seventeen 
train;  and  if  he  telegraphed  to  Christie  so  that  he  could 
get  the  eleven-something  from  Biarritz,  they  would  be 
bound  to  pass  on  the  way.  And  if  the  diligence  drivers 
stopped  to  chat  and  smoke  a  cigarette,  as  they  often  did, 
the  two  passengers  would  doubtless  recognize  each 
other.  ...  He  could  not  see  any  way  out  of  that;  he 
must  take  the  chance.  But  after  all,  such  a  meeting 
might  involve  a  possible  solution.  If  Christie  came  by 
a  later  train,  the  two  travellers  would  probably  meet  at 
Erro  station.  This  would  not  mend  matters,  and 
would  endanger  the  further  plan  of  action  that  he  was 
rapidly  forming. 

He  hesitated  no  longer,  but  sent  his  telegram  when 
Folly  had  gone  upstairs  to  prepare  for  her  journey. 

Then,  haunted  by  the  sense  of  what  he  was  doing,  he 
followed  and  knocked  at  her  door. 

She  was  so  amazed  to  see  him  there  that  he  felt 
bound  to  trump  up  an  excuse.  "I  came  to  tell  you" — 
he  said,  and  stopped. 

Perceiving  that  she  was  about  to  tie  her  shoe,  he 
suggested,  "Let  me,"  and  had  knelt  before  she  could 
prevent  him. 

When  he  had  done  this,  to  his  own  amazement  and 
hers,  he  laid  his  head  on  her  knee. 

"Why,  my  dear!"  she  exclaimed.    "You're  not  so 

well  then?   I  won't  go." 

226 


Folly 

But  he  looked  up  at  once.  "You  shall  go.  Why  not ? 
I'm  all  right." 

When  she  made  no  answer  beyond  looking  at  him 
keenly,  he  rose  and  fetched  her  cloak,  and  held  it  out  to 
her  to  put  on,  saying:  "You  will  miss  the  ferry." 

As  she  slipped  her  arms  into  it,  he  suddenly  drew  her 
back,  cloak  and  all,  and  kissed  her  with  an  intensity  of 
emotion  that  he  had  never  shown  before. 

"Why,  Hal" — she  was  frightened  by  his  strangeness 
— "  what  is  this  ?  You  are  surely  worse  ?  I  will  stay  at 
home  to-day." 

With  that,  he  conceived  the  necessity  for  acting,  and 
played  his  part  so  well  that  she  was  reassured,  only 
wondering  that  he  should  linger  about  and  watch  her 
as  she  arranged  her  hat  and  veil,  and  found  her  gloves 
and  purse. 

"I  will  walk  to  the  ferry  with  you,"  he  said;  and 
when  they  came  down  into  the  garden,  picked  a  flower 
and  gave  it  to  her — a  strange  red  blossom  with  a 
purple  heart,  the  name  of  which  neither  knew. 

They  walked  slowly  along  the  empty  street  that 
echoed  the  sound  of  their  footsteps;  and  after  a  little 
while,  he  took  her  arm  and  drew  it  through  his. 

She  mistook  the  action  for  weakness,  and  pretended 
to  push  him  away.  "Go  home.  You  will  tire  your- 
self." 

"No,"  he  answered;  and  looking  into  her  face, 
asked :  "  You  trust  me,  do  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  was  all  she  said. 

227 


Folly 

"Trust  me  always." 

Her  face  grew  heavier  with  trouble,  and  he  hastened 
to  forestall  her  words : 

"My  dear,  I  do  honestly  assure  you  that  you  need 
not  worry  about  me  to-day."  He  added  under  his 
breath:  "Or  after — or  after.  God  grant  it!" 

"I  should  not  go,"  she  said  anxiously,  "only,  you 
see — you  see,  it's  another  hope.  ..." 

They  passed  under  the  ruined  gate;  and  just  beyond 
met  the  goat-herd  with  his  brown  flock.  The  man 
stopped  his  piping  and  entreated  custom. 

Gore  shook  his  head,  but  Folly  said,  "Please — to 
please  me;  it  will  do  you  good,"  and  he  yielded. 

The  herd  stooped  to  his  milking,  and  the  shaggy 
flock  browsed  here  and  there  among  the  cobbles.  When 
the  glass  foamed  over,  said  Gore:  "Let  us  drink  it  to- 
gether, you  and  I,  in  earnest  of  drinking  together  one 
day  the  cup  of  joy." 

She  barely  touched  the  glass,  and  then  he;  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  and  laughed,  she  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"We  must  try  again,"  he  said,  and  they  made  a 
ritual  of  it,  drinking  alternately  until  the  glass  was 
empty. 

So  for  a  moment  they  stood  poised,  it  seemed  to 
him,  between  the  City  of  Thorns  and  the  sea — the 
last  moment  they  should  be  together  in  this  world 
of  men.  .  .  . 

"The  ferryman  is  waiting,"  she  murmured  softly; 
228 


Folly 

and  they  passed  along  to  the  end  of  the  rough  stone 
causeway  over  the  sands,  where  Kiki,  the  wrinkled 
Basque,  sat  patient  on  a  thwart.  She  was  to  be  the 
only  passenger,  it  seemed. 

"Is  not  the  senor  coming  too?"  asked  the  oarsman. 

"Yes,"  cried  Gore,  suddenly  unable  to  resist  the 
temptation;  but  she  was  firm  and,  laughing,  held  him 
off  with  both  hands.  So  they  stood  another  long  mo- 
ment, she  in  the  boat,  he  above  on  the  causeway.  Then 
there  came  a  strain  upon  their  clasp ;  and  looking  down, 
he  saw  a  foot  of  water  between  them. 

"The  senor  wishes  to  come?"  asked  the  ferryman 
again,  prepared  to  lay  hold  of  the  pier. 

But  Folly  was  vehement.  "No,  no,  you  misunder- 
stand," said  she  in  Spanish.  "He  cannot  come." 
And  to  him  in  English :  "  Go  home  and  rest.  And  don't 
meet  me  to-night  or  wait  up  for  me.  There's  no  telling 
when  you  will  see  me  again." 

He  had  hesitated  while  he  might  have  leaped,  and 
now  a  wide  stretch  of  water  was  between  them. 

He  strained  to  catch  every  look  of  her  face,  long  after 
its  features  were  blurred  together;  and  as  if  fascinated 
by  his  intentness,  she  gave  him  gaze  for  gaze  until  she 
reached  the  opposite  landing.  Then  he  saw  the  flutter 
of  a  handkerchief  and  she  was  gone. 

He  made  a  hasty  movement  and  looked  upstream 
and  down;  but  he  knew  well  that  none  of  the  fishermen 
came  so  far  within,  and  that  by  the  time  the  ferry  re- 
turned,  the  diligence  would  be  gone.  ...  He  was 

229 


Folly 

alone,  dizzy  with  the  sun  beating  on  the  sands,  and  in 
his  ears  the  shrill  piping  of  the  goat-herd,  softened  to  a 
plaintive  tenderness,  far  up  in  the  City  of  Thorns: 


230 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  ONLY  WAY. 

NOT  long  after  Gore  had  returned  to  the  inn,  a  tele-' 
gram  was  brought  to  him,  containing  the  words: 
"  Coming  by  eleven-fourteen  train.  Christie." 

During  the  hours  that  intervened,  he  was  busy 
enough;  but  when  his  visitor  was  announced,  between 
three  and  four,  he  told  the  seftora,  who  passed  him  in 
the  hall,  that  everything  was  pretty  well  ready. 

As  he  opened  the  sitting-room  door,  he  saw  the 
Basque  maid  on  the  stairway,  and  called  her  to  give 
some  nonchalant  and  seemingly  insignificant  order; 
then  went  in,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  perhaps  to  em- 
phasize a  slight  air  of  bravado,  and  closed  the  door  by 
leaning  against  it. 

Christie  returned  his  nod,  and  awaited  in  silence 
what  he  might  have  to  say  for  himself.  He  was  stand- 
ing by  the  window  as  Gore  came  in,  and  did  not  ad- 
vance, or  take  the  offered  chair.  Nor  did  Gore  meet 
him  more  than  half  way,  as  he  faced  him,  leaning  on 
the  table  more  heavily  than  Christie  knew. 

"The  point  is,"  began  Gore  abruptly,  as  if  the 
matter  had  been  previously  under  discussion,  "I 

231 


Folly 

asked  you  to  come  here  to-day  because  I  am  leaving 
Espinal." 

This  sentence  was  meaningless  to  Christie,  and  he 
made  no  comment. 

"The  ferry  goes  in  less  than  an  hour,  so  I  must  be 
quick  and  plain.  In  a  word,  I  am  deserting — her." 

"You" — Christie's  fist  clinched,  and  he  jerked 
sharply  about;  then  he  remembered  the  other  man's 
weakness  and  controlled  himself.  "May  I  ask  why 
I  am  honoured  with  this  communication?" 

"Certainly.  When  you  know  the  facts,  you  may 
wish  to  take  her  back." 

He  had  got  it  out  now,  and  was  able  to  walk  up  and 
down  with  more  ease  of  mind,  while  awaiting  the  re- 
sponse. 

But  Christie  was  slow  to  say:  "I  expected  a  different 
state  of  affairs;  I  can  make  no  sense  of  this." 

"You  expected  to  find  me  dying;  well,  so  I  am,  and 
that  is  why  I  am  going  away." 

"What  else?"  asked  Christie,  as  he  paused. 

"What  else?  Why,  I  hardly  know.  It  is  for  you  to 
put  questions.  I  have  stated  the  case  to  you;  and  I 
have  written  to  her." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  believe — that  she  would 
wish  to  be  taken  back?" 

"None  whatever,"  Gore  was  forced  to  confess. 

"She  does  not  wish  it  then?  She  chose  to  leave  me; 
if  she  comes  back,  it  must  be  of  her  own  free  will." 

"  Suppose  she  should  be  willing,  how  could  she  know 

that  the  door  is  open?" 

232 


Folly 

Christie  turned  upon  him  keenly:  "Well — first  and 
last — I  take  it,  I  am  her  husband." 

"Is  that  enough?" 

And  Christie:  "By  this  time  she  ought  to  know 
something  of  me." 

"And  you  of  her?"  asked  Gore. 

"I  don't  care  to  discuss  that  with  you,"  said  Christie 
curtly.  "  I  gather  you  are  wanting  to  be  rid  of  her  ?  " 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  Gore  calmly.  "I  have  al- 
ready given  you  a  sufficient  reason  for  my  act;  but  I 
can  tell  you  more.  You  speak  of  being  her  husband; 
well,  so  you  are,  as  much  so  as  when  she  left  you  six 
months  ago.  She  has  been  playing  nurse  to  a  captious 
invalid,  and  that's  the  end  of  the  matter." 

Christie  looked  at  him  hard,  to  get  the  truth. 

"  Believe  it  at  your  leisure.  Yes,  it's  been  a  fizzle — 
or  rather,  I  have — from  the  beginning;  and  I  don't 
enjoy  admitting  it.  But  it  seems  the  only  straight 
thing  to  do.  Now  do  you  wonder  that  I  want  to  save 
her  still  if  lean?" 

It  seemed  long  to  both  before  Christie  muttered 
under  his  breath :  "  The  folly  of  it ! " 

"That's  it" — Gore  laughed  and  choked,  and  leaned 
heavily  over  the  back  of  a  chair.  "The  Folly  of  it,  oh, 
the  Folly  of  it!"  He  asked  suddenly:  " Did  you  by  any 
chance  pass  her  on  the  way?" 

"I  saw  a  woman  I  thought  like  her;  but  it  was  only 
a  glimpse.  The  diligence  did  not  stop.  And  she  was 
not  looking  at  me." 


233 


Folly 

"  I  have  taken  advantage  of  her  absence,"  said  Gore, 
drawing  out  his  watch.  "I  want  to  get  away  at  four- 
thirty.  I  decided  weeks  ago  that  this  must  be  the  end 
sooner  or  later;  but  I  didn't  reach  the  point  until  yester- 
day. She'll  have  some  chance  of  getting  over  it,  once  I 
am  gone;  but  this  dragging  business — with  six  months 
more  of  it,  Lord,  she'll  be  done  for  herself!  You 
see?" 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Christie;  but  was  by 
no  means  clear  of  his  bewilderment. 

"I  couldn't  find  a  decent  way  until  I  heard  you  were 
at  Biarritz,  by  a  piece  of  luck.  ..." 

"Luck!"  echoed  the  other. 

"Well,  whatever  your  business  was;  it's  no  affair  of 
mine.  But  I  tell  you  it  gave  me  my  clue.  I  couldn't 
have  left  her  here  alone.  ..." 

All  at  once  Christie  awakened  to  a  certain  grasp  of 
the  situation.  "  So  you  propose  to  sneak  off  and  get  me 
to  face  the  music?"  he  demanded,  with  a  brutality  the 
more  amazing  for  his  previous  quietness.  "Is  that 
it?" 

"That's  one  way  of  looking  at  it,"  said  Gore,  though 
his  colour  wavered  and  paled.  "You  may  think  it 
cowardly  ..." 

"Damned  cowardly!" 

"But  to  me  the  greater  cowardice  is  staying  on. " 

"I'm  no  judge.  As  a  rule,  I  don't  run  away,"  said 
Christie  coldly. 

"By  God,  man "  began  Gore,  but  remembered 

234 


Folly 

that  the  other  could  not  be  expected  to  know  what  he 
knew;  so  fell  silent  again. 

"And  what  part  do  you  propose  that  I  should  play 
in  this  little  game?"  asked  Christie. 

"I  propose  nothing.    You  have  the  facts." 

"Very  few,"  objected  Christie,  "very  few.  Your 
side  of  the  story.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  wait  ..." 

"If  you  have  anything  more  to  ask,"  said  Gore 
impatiently,  "be  quick  about  it,  for  I  have  no  intention 
of  losing  my  boat." 

"She  does  not  suspect  this — act  of  yours?"  Self- 
restraint  made  visible  marks  on  Christie's  face. 

"Not  to-day,  at  least;  but  she  cannot  be  altogether 
unprepared  for  something  of  the  sort.  She  may  think 
I  could  not  do  it." 

"And  if  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  matter,  and  return 
to  Biarritz  by  the  next  train?" 

"You  are  a  just  man,"  answered  Gore,  "and  you 
will  put  the  blame  where  it  belongs." 

"On  you?" 

"On  me." 

"Were  you  then  responsible  for  her  coming  here?" 

"Certainly  I  could  have  prevented  her  staying." 

"And  that  you  did  no  more  mischief  ..." 

"Is  my  misfortune  and  your  gain.  I  intended  no 
generosity." 

"And  now  you  are  going  where?" 

"That  does  not  matter,  I  think.  I  shall  not  cross 
your  path  again." 

235 


Folly 

He  read  for  a  moment  a  hot  curse  in  Christie's  eyes, 
that  he  had  ever  crossed  their  path;  but  this  faded 
almost  as  it  came. 

With  an  effort,  Gore  went  on  to  practical  details  of 
times  and  arrangements;  and  when  at  last  he  paused 
for  breath,  Christie  said : 

"Thanks.  I  should  not  have  supposed  you  to  be  a 
poet." 

"Not  all  poets  are  fools,"  began  Gore,  then  turned 
his  sentence  with  a  laugh,  "but  perhaps  I  am  not  a 
poet.  The  point  is,  is  there  anything  else?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Christie  after  a  moment,  and 
paused  again.  "  I  came  to  Biarritz  anticipating  that 
there  would  be  trouble;  but  I  certainly  never  expected 
anything  as  singular  as  this." 

"We  are  rapidly  restoring  it  to  the  normal,"  said 
Gore.  "Well?"  He  was  obviously  waiting  for  his 
visitor  to  go. 

But  Christie  appeared  to  think  that  it  devolved  upon 
him  to  say  something:  "  I  hope  that  you  ..." 

"Thanks— don't  trouble." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  keenly  aware  of  the 
awkwardness  of  their  position;  but  Gore  contrived  an 
ironic  smile.  "You're  not  playing  up  to  your  part  as 
the  injured  husband." 

"Hang  it!"  said  Christie,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Gore  shrugged.   "How  can  we?" 

But  Christie  did  not  withdraw. 


236 


Folly 

Then  Gore  was  ashamed  of  his  hesitation.  "After 
all,  you  win,"  he  declared.  "Mark  my  words." 

"I  shall  meet  her  at  the  ferry,"  said  Christie,  taking 
up  his  hat  and  preparing  to  go. 

But  Gore  stopped  him.  "  I  say,"  he  continued,  with  a 
curious  perplexed  smile,  "I  can't  very  well  ask  you  to 

be  gentle  with  her;  but  after  all "  he  brushed  his 

hand  across  his  eyebrows. 

"We  are  in  the  same  boat,  would  you  say?"  asked 
Christie. 

Then  Gore  found  his  jest:  "No — I  shall  be 
aboard  Charon's — I  mean  Kiki's — in  ten  minutes." 

"It  was  the  straight  thing,"  said  Christie  huskily; 
and  afterwards,  now  and  again,  wondered  to  the  end  of 
his  days  whether  Gore  had  heard. 


237 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 

IT  was  long  past  twilight  when  Folly  returned.  From 
the  shadow  of  the  gateway,  Christie  saw  her  climbing 
up  the  sandy  road,  then  retreated  and  followed  her 
until  she  had  entered  the  inn. 

He  gave  her  a  little  time — measuring  it  by  his  watch 
under  a  light  that  -projected  from  a  balcony  above — 
time  enough  to  miss  Gore,  not  time  enough  to  learn  the 
truth. 

He  had  himself  announced  by  name;  and  she  came 
to  meet  him,  her  eyes  flashing  in  her  white  face:  "He 
is  dead?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  he  answered,  with  sudden  uncon- 
trollable impatience.  "Don't  be  absurd.  But  I  have 
come  to  take  you  home,  if  you  will." 

She  shrank  away  from  him.  "Why?  Where  is 
he  ?  " — her  voice  grew  shriller. 

"Be  quiet,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  hoping  by 
sternness  to  soothe  her. 

She  looked  at  him  piercingly ;  then  suddenly  lost  her 
self-command,  rushed  to  him  and  seized  his  arm:  "I 

have  been  quiet  too  long.    Tell  me — tell  me !    You  shall 

238 


Folly 

tell  me!     I  shall  shriek — I  shall — tell  me  what  has 
happened!" 

"Not  while  you  are  in  this  state,"  he  answered 
grimly. 

She  sank  in  a  huddle  on  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and 
with  her  thumbs  pressed  against  her  forehead,  rocked 
herself  backwards  and  forwards  in  abandonment  to 
her  grief :  "O  Andrew,  have  mercy!" 

He  seized  her  wrists  and  held  her  still,  saying  with 
deliberate  scorn:  "You  are  not  on  the  stage." 

She  was  quiet  then,  but  she  did  not  rise:  "Tell  me." 

"He  has  gone  away,"  said  Christie,  as  gently  as  he 
could. 

"You  mean  he  has — left  me?"  she  breathed;  and 
upon  his  assent,  gave  a  low  cry:  "Ah,  I  knew — I  knew 
it  would  be  so!" 

He  was  silent,  helpless  to  console,  and  angry  at  his 
own  helplessness.  But  he  pulled  her  unresisting  to  her 
feet,  and  put  one  arm  about  her  to  keep  her  from  falling. 

"Will  you  come  home?"  he  asked  again. 

But  she  seemed  not  to  have  heard.  "  Tell  me  more," 
she  pleaded;  and  was  very  still  while  he,  judging  that 
the  simple  truth  would  be  least  grievous,  went  through 
the  tale  as  he  understood  it. 

"Then,"  she  said,  by  way  of  conclusion,  "then  there 
is  nothing  to  be  done?" 

"  Unless  you  try  to  follow  him, "  he  suggested  keenly. 

"Not  again,"  she  whispered.  "You  said  there  was 
a  letter?" 

239 


Folly 

"One  moment,"  he  urged. 

She  had  walked  away  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  cop- 
per ring  of  the  bureau;  but  she  turned  again. 

"There  will  be  time  enough  for  that."  He  had  a 
definite  theory  that  it  would  not  do  yet  to  leave  her 
alone  with  her  trouble.  "  You  must  answer  me  first. 
What  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"  You  can't  stay  here." 

"No." 

"Where  will  you  go?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  must  find  out  and  tell  me,"  said  he  brusquely. 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Come,  come,  this  won't  do.  You  must  rouse  your- 
self." He  assumed  harshness. 

She  laughed  a  little  at  that.  "It's  what  I  told  the 
woman  across  the  way;  and  when  I  gave  her  money, 
she  was  cheerful  again.  Her  lover  deserted  her,  and — 
I  heard  her  singing  yesterday." 

He  thought  her  crazed  with  grief,  and  said  gently: 
"I  don't  want  to  trouble  you;  but  you  must  let  me  take 
charge  of  everything  now.  ..." 

"You!"  she  cried  astonished. 

His  face  flushed,  as  he  said  more  passionately  than 
she  had  ever  before  heard  him  speak:  "By  God,  who 
has  a  better  right  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  fumbling  to  open  the  drawer. 

He  swung  her  fiercely  round  to  face  him.     "Not  yet. 
240 


Folly 

Look  here,  I've  asked  you  twice  before.  Will  you  come 
home  with  me?" 

She  turned  wide  eyes  upon  him.  "You  asked  me 
that  ?  I  did  not  hear.  You  would  take  me  back  again  ?  " 

He  did  not  deem  further  assurance  necessary. 

"After  all  this— this ?" 

Still  he  held  her  attention  by  waiting. 

"But  I  have  treated  you  abominably  ..."  she 
began. 

"  Well  ?  "    He  did  not  deny  her  self -accusation. 

"You  could  forgive  that?" 

"  You  are  my  wife.    Answer  me." 

"  Some  men  would  have  gone  into  the  divorce  courts 
for  less,"  she  said,  as  if  to  herself. 

"Have  I  sufficient  grounds?"  he  asked.  The  ques- 
tion was  at  once  involuntary  and  irresistible. 

"No,"  she  said,  without  further  attempt  at  self- 
justification;  and  did  not  seem  surprised  when  he 
answered:  "I  knew  as  much." 

"Let  me  go,"  she  breathed. 

"Not  yet — not  yet,"  he  said  grimly,  feeling  that 
almost  the  worst  of  his  punishment  was  to  have  to  seem 
to  punish  her.  "  I  want  you  to  know  that,  in  any  case, 
my  offer  would  have  been  the  same.  But — will  you 
come  ?  " 

"You  can  force  me  to  go,  by  law,  I  suppose,"  she 
answered  indifferently. 

"Am  I  likely  to  do  that?" 

"No" — she  considered  these  bubbles  on  the  surface, 
16  241 


Folly 

with  her  life-joy  at  the  bottom  of  the  deep  waters. 
"No,  you  are  too  proud;  but  you  could  by  right  ..." 

"Have  I  always  claimed  my  right?" 

"No;  you  are  good — good."  She  pleaded  again: 
"Oh,  if  you  are  good,  let  me  go  now!" 

He  seized  her  hands.     "I  don't  trust  you." 

She  turned  her  face  away,  with  a  tearless  sob;  and 
all  at  once  pity  overcame  him.  He  drew  her  close  and 
laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "There  now,  have  it 
out — can't  you?" 

But  she  tried  to  free  herself.    "  I  want  my  letter." 

Then  he  pushed  her  away  so  violently  that  she 
almost  fell;  and  as  quickly  made  a  movement  to  catch 
her.  "You're  too  much  for  a  man — too  much  for  me, 
anyway!  I'll  not  leave  you  until  you  have  answered 
my  question " 

"No!"  said  she,  sharply. 

"You  won't  come?  Very  well.  That  settles  it. 
Will  you  go  to  the  mater?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  will  you  name  somebody  to  whom  you  will 
go?" 

She  was  calmer  now.  "  Either  I  should  be  a  burden 
to  them  all,  or  they  would  misjudge  me.  ..." 

"You  know  the  mater's  boast  that  as  a  judge's 
daughter  she  keeps  clear  of  the  Bench.  As  for  myself — 
good  Lord,  don't  bother  about  me!"  His  tone  was  not 
far  from  irony.  "And  as  for  other  people  ..." 

"I'd  rather  stay  here,"  she  interrupted  suddenly. 
242 


Folly 

"And  fret  yourself  to  death?  Well,  I  don't  propose 
to  let  you,  so  there's  an  end  of  that.  We  must  find 
another  way." 

But  in  truth  he  was  at  a  loss.  He  ran  rapidly 
over  the  possibilities,  but  could  not  find  one  that 
he  thought  would  serve  her  in  this  hour  of  need. 
And  left  to  herself,  she  had  every  temptation  to  take 
her  own  life,  and  lacked  not  the  courage,  as  he  well 
knew. 

"There  is  a  way,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "The 
Sisters  up  on  the  hill — they  would  be  kind.  They  care 
for  sick  people.  I  don't  know  whether  they  would  have 
me  .  .  ." 

He  knitted  his  brows  over  this  unexpected  solution. 

"They  would  understand  what  it  is  to  die  and  yet 
live  on  and  on." 

Still  he  said  nothing,  and  she  concluded  wearily: 
"I  could  be  quiet  there.  It's  all  I  want — to  sink  out  of 
sight.  I'm  sorry  to  be  such  a  trouble  to  you.  You  can 
wash  your  hands  of  me  then." 

"Have  your  way,"  he  said  at  last.  "That  must  do 
for  the  present.  Later  on  ..." 

She  escaped  from  him  and  found  the  envelope  that 
she  had  been  seeking  in  the  bureau  drawer.  "Later? 
There  is  only  now  for  me." 

She  was  about  to  go  upstairs  when  he  laid  a  clench- 
ing hand  on  her  shoulder:  "You  must  promise  me  to 
do  no  harm  to  yourself." 

"Don't — you  hurt  me" — she  shrank  from  his  grasp. 
243 


Folly 

"The  harm  has  been  done,  I  think;  but  I  promise.    I 
will  not  shirk  the  future." 

With  one  more  word  he  let  her  go.  "Remember," 
said  he,  "when  you  are  ready  to  see  me  again,  I  shall 
be  waiting  outside  your  door." 


244 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  SISTERHOOD. 

DURING  the  month  of  May,  Folly  almost  lived  in  the 
garden  of  the  Sisters,  that  hangs  on  the  steep  hill 
overlooking  Espinal.  But  she  haunted  not  so  much 
the  little  square  in  front  of  the  house,  with  its  stiff  beds 
of  begonias  and  geraniums,  and  rows  of  oleanders,  as 
the  old  wild  slope  with  the  brook  tumbling  through  it 
in  cascades  along  a  mossy  track  of  boulders  to  the  Itsu 
in  the  valley  below.  Here  she  found  plum-trees  and  cher- 
ry-trees, gnarled  and  bent,  as  if  under  their  weight  of 
bloom,  and  a  few  hoary  olive-stumps,  and  wild  flowers 
growing  among  the  sprawling  ivy  and  bramble.  It  is 
to  other  gardens  as  a  ruin  among  houses ;  and  perhaps 
that  was  why  Folly  preferred  to  sit  there,  on  the  stone 
wall  at  the  lower  margin,  where  the  road  is  cut  through 
the  rock  beneath — to  sit  there  and  look  down  upon  the 
valley  that  had  seen  the  efflorescence  and  withering  of 
the  passion-flower  of  her  life. 

The  Sisters  were  troubled  about  her,  because  she 
was  so  silent,  and  would  not  leave  her  to  the  solitude 

that  she  craved.    They  would  come  out,  one  after  an- 

245 


Folly 

other,  demure  little  figures  in  their  black  garb,  with  the 
broad  white  collar  and  the  gleam  of  Virgin  blue  under 
the  head-dress ;  and  when  she  wanted  most  to  be  alone, 
they  would  talk  to  her  about  the  garden  and  the  spring 
and  their  poor  folk  down  in  the  city. 

Still  she  loved  them  all,  and  at  times  listened  willingly 
to  their  chatter,  and  tried  to  make  answer  as  if  she 
were  one  of  themselves. 

But  that  was  difficult,  for  talk  as  they  would,  they 
always  came  sooner  or  later  upon  some  stumbling- 
block  of  faith,  or  habit  of  thought,  that  drove  them 
apart,  so  that  they  could  only  look  at  each  other  wist- 
fully across  the  gap  and  wonder  why  God  had  made 
souls  so  different. 

With  Sister  Christina,  Folly  tried  first  to  speak  of  her 
trouble.  She  was  an  exquisite  young  Andalusian,  with 
big  burning  eyes  that  still  shed  tears  when  she  spoke  of 
her  mother.  "I  can  remember  coming  home  with  her 
through  the  vineyards,  with  baskets  on  our  heads,  and 
the  air  full  of  the  smell  of  the  grapes.  And  she  sang 
little  songs — ah,  and  I  shall  not  see  her  again  in  this 
world!"  And  although  she  might  not  give  way  to  her 
weeping,  she  would  look  at  times  so  sorrowful  and  so 
home-sick  that  Folly  felt  sure  she  would  understand 
her  own  grief  and  longing. 

"  But  no,"  she  said,  "  it  is  a  sin  to  feel  so.  We  must 
submit  us  to  God's  will  and  be  happy." 

"And  be  happy,"  Folly  repeated.     "Sister,  Sister, 

even  you  cannot  always  do  that." 

246 


Polly 

"That  is  because  I  am  so  sinful,"  was  the  prompt 
answer. 

"And  yet  you  do  not  know — had  you  a  lover?"  pur- 
sued Folly,  forgetting  to  be  kind. 

"Heaven  defend!"  answered  the  little  nun,  all  a- 
blush. 

"Then  you  know  nothing  about  my  trouble,"  said 
Folly. 

They  were  walking  in  the  cloister  that  adjoined  the 
chapel,  and  had  reached  a  splendid  broken  tomb  cut 
into  the  wall. 

"Who  was  she?"  asked  Folly,  pointing  to  the  effigy. 

"A  patroness  of  ours — I  do  not  know  how  many 
hundred  years  ago.  And  I  forget  her  name.  But  she 
was  daughter  and  sister  to  a  king,  and  mother  of  many 
princes;  and  when  she  was  young  they  say  she  was  so 
wicked  that  the  friars  used  to  call  down  judgments  on 
her  head;  and  suddenly  she  repented,  and  gave  all  her 
wealth  to  this  house,  and  died  here  very  holy." 

"And  what  were  the  sins  of  her  youth?"  asked  Folly. 

"Ah,  that  the  Mother  would  never  tell  us,"  said 
Christina.  "She  read  it  to  us  out  of  a  book  and  she 
always  skipped  that  part.  I  know,  because  Sister 
Eulalia  stumbled  upon  it  one  day;  but  she  never  told 
me  what  it  was.  But  still,  as  soon  as  you  repent  of 
your  sins  you  will  be  happy.  I  always  am." 

"  I  am  going  to  say  a  wicked  thing,  Sister,"  answered 
Folly.  "I  believe  that  she" — she  pointed  to  the  effigy 

in  ruff  and  farthingale,  jewels  and  high-heeled  shoes — 

247 


Folly 

"was  happier  in  her  conscienceless  days  when  life  was 
love  and  love  was  life,  than  after,  when  she  graced 
your  foundation  here." 

"You  think  that?"  said  Christina.  "Oh,  I  must  go 
and  do  something  I  had  forgotten."  And  she  fled 
away  shocked. 

With  Sister  Teresa,  Folly  alluded  to  this  same  sinner 
and  benefactress  of  old;  and  the  sombre-faced  nun 
answered : 

"  She  went  down  into  the  deeps  to  find  salvation.  It 
comes  in  many  ways — even  through  sin." 

"How  through  sin?"  asked  Folly. 

"Scourge  thyself  and  thou  wilt  know,"  said  Teresa, 
harsh- voiced  and  fierce  in  her  admonition. 

"  But  how  ?  "  Folly  persisted. 

"Give  thyself  no  peace.     Drive  thyself  to  do  the 

things  thy  soul  loathes,  all  the  days  and  all  the  nights 
» 

"That  is  not  living,"  protested  Folly,  roused  even 
to  indignation. 

Teresa's  face  blossomed  into  a  sudden  smile.  "It 
leads  to  life  beyond  life,"  she  said. 

But  Folly  left  her,  thinking  sadly:  "That  is 
her  way,  not  mine.  As  we  are  all  different,  there  must 
be  a  separate  path  for  each  of  us;  but  to  find  it 
—how?" 

In  her  quest  she  turned  to  Sister  Ursula,  whose  face 
wore  always  a  tranquillity  that  it  seemed  no  joy  or  dis- 
tress could  change. 

248 


Folly 

"Tell  me,  Sister,"  said  Folly  one  day,  "does  nothing 
ever  trouble  you  ?  " 

"How  could  I  be  troubled?"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  But  some  of  us  poor  folk  out  in  the  world  are  always 
asking :  '  How  not  ? ' " 

Ursula  spread  forth  her  arms,  with  a  sudden  gesture 
of  welcome:  "Then  leave  the  world  and  come  to  us." 

Folly  closed  her  eyes,  and  tried  to  see  herself  in  the 
blue  and  black  garb,  shut  in  forever  with  the  self  that 
was  her  chief  torture;  and  in  that  moment  she  knew 
that  the  picture  was  impossible. 

"But  what  should  I  do  here  to  keep  an  untroubled 
mind?"  she  asked. 

"For  me,  it  is  enough  to  pray,  and  to  contemplate 
the  Goodness  of  the  Father,  the  Sacrifice  of  the  Son,  the 
Comfort  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  Beatitudes  of  the  Vir- 
gin, the  Glories  of  the  Saints.  ..." 

So  far  had  Ursula  gone,  rapt  in  her  recital,  before 
she  noticed  that  Folly  had  sunk  on  one  of  the  stone 
benches,  and  was  weeping  bitterly : 

"O  Sister,  Sister,  I  am  all  different!  And  I  rebel 
against  my  lot,  day  and  night.  And  I  shall  never  find 
peace." 

"In  the  fold  of  the  Church  is  always  peace,"  was 
Ursula's  only  answer. 

On  another  day,  Folly,  in  the  wild  garden,  met  Sister 
Monica,  who  always  let  herself  in  through  the  small 
wicket,  as  she  came  up  from  teaching  her  little  school 

in  the  town  below.    And  there  was  upon  her  face  a 

249 


Folly 

weary  look  that  made  Folly  ask  impulsively:  "Are  you 
happy,  Sister?" 

Monica  glanced  at  her,  and  the  lines  in  her  face  were 
smoothed  away  as  she  laughed:  "What  a  foolish 
question!" 

"But  I  want  to  know." 

"I  can't  tell  you  then.  I'm  too  busy  to  think  about 
it." 

"  But  why  did  you  look  so  tired  as  you  came  in  at  the 
gate  just  now?" 

"Oh,  that  was  because  I  had  to  punish  a  boy  for 
stealing  a  pencil;  and  I'm  afraid  he'll  end  in  prison 
one  day,  for  he's  done  similar  things  before." 

"And  you  were  sad  for  him?  Are  you  only  sad  for 
other  people?" 

"It  would  be  a  stupid  thing  to  be  sad  for  one's  self, 
would  it  not  ?  "  asked  Monica,  in  her  practical  way. 

"I  don't  know.  Most  people  are.  But  tell  me — do 
you  like  teaching  the  children?" 

"Not  particularly.  What  does  that  matter?  When 
I  gave  myself  to  the  Church,  I  surrendered  my  likes 
and  dislikes,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  echoed  Folly,  and  waving  farewell, 
turned  down  one  of  the  overgrown  side-paths.  "She 
has  no  self  left — swallowed  up  in  the  whole;  but  she 
does  useful  work.  Is  that  the  way,  I  wonder?" 

She  had  been  with  the  Sisters  several  weeks  as  guest 
and  lodger,  when  she  came  into  the  little  formal  garden 

on  a  morning,  and  found  the  nuns  sewing,  while  one  read 

250 


Folly 

aloud;  and  a  little  apart  from  them,  where  the 
murmur  of  the  voice  was  pleasant  and  not  disturbing, 
Mother  Miguel  herself,  and  with  her  the  old  priest 
whom  Folly  had  seen  very  often  since  the  day  of  the 
pilgrimage. 

Mother  Miguel  beckoned  her  to  come  and  sit  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bench;  and  the  old  man  greeted 
her  in  a  fatherly  manner,  as  if  they  had  been  long 
acquainted. 

"You  are  happy  here,  my  child?"  he  began,  some- 
what abruptly. 

"Happy?"  she  repeated  wistfully.  "I  am  trying  to 
learn  how  to  live." 

"And  what  have  you  learned?"  he  asked  keenly. 

"  That  peace  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  nor  light 
by  prayer." 

He  answered  in  a  strange  figure:  "Peace  is  the  rare 
blossom  that  crowns  the  thorny  cactus ;  but  if  the  plant 
spread  out  its  leaves  to  the  light  and  air  of  heaven,  the 
flower  will  surely  come." 

"Thorns — thorns,"  she  sighed. 

He  studied  her  sharply  some  moments,  then  put  a 
direct  question:  "Thesenor  who  came  here  with  you 
one  day — is  he  better  ?  " 

"He  has  gone  away,"  she  answered. 

"Ah,  so  they  tell  me,"  he  continued  genially.  "In  a 
little  town  there  is  much  talk.  And  will  not  come 
back?" 

"And  will  not  come  back." 
251 


Folly 

"And  the  senora — she  would  like  to  continue  here 
with  the  Sisters?" 

"I  cannot  tell.    No — here  is  no  peace  for  me." 

"The  senora  is  not  of  the  Church,"  he  murmured 
gently. 

"No,  but  I  have  lived  among  the  Sisters.  They  have 
seen  me  through  the  darkest  places.  They  have  done 
for  me  all  that  they  can.  But  I  am  different.  Perhaps 
I  shall  find  light  elsewhere." 

"Surely,  surely,"  said  Mother  Miguel,  in  her  deep 
comforting  voice,  "we  none  of  us  live  in  darkness  all 
our  days.  The  seeker  shall  find." 

And  the  priest:  "A  physician  cannot  prescribe  with- 
out knowing  the  nature  of  the  disease." 

"Why,  it  is  simple  enough,"  said  Folly.  " I  have  lost 
hope  and  faith  and " 

"Ah" — he  smiled  so  genially  that  she  could  not  take 
offence — "out  of  the  fold,  you  see,  out  of  the  fold." 

She  smiled  back  at  him  with  more  interest  than  she  had 
previously  shown:  "That  cannot  be,  for  I  do  not  admit 
that  I  am  a  sheep  at  all." 

"Ah — ah,"  he  shook  his  head  laughing  over  her  con- 
fession. "  It  is  a  pity,  but  if  it  cannot  be  helped —  ?  When 
salvation  is  given  freely — but  you  would  work  out  your 
own?  Well,  well  ..." 

He  rose  and  stood  with  his  hands  clasped  over  his 
belt,  looking  down  upon  the  Mother  Superior. 

"I  think  it  is  time,"  said  he;  and  the  words  did  not 

seem  to  refer  to  anything  that  preceded  or  followed. 

252 


Folly 

Then  he  blest  them  all  and  said  farewell  and  went 
his  way. 

When  Folly  would  have  returned  to  her  garden, 
Mother  Miguel  still  held  her  hand  a  moment.  "  Dear 
child,  dear  child,  you  do  not  belong  among  my  chil- 
dren; but  you  will  find  your  place." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

HELP. 

ON  a  fair  evening,  perhaps  a  week  later,  Folly  sat 
alone  on  the  lichen- covered  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  gar- 
den. She  looked  down  the  shaggy  slope  across  the 
broad  valley,  dotted  with  cypresses  and  poplar-enclosed 
farm-steadings,  to  the  golden  city  on  its  dome-like 
hill;  and  beyond,  at  the  river  delta  reflecting  every 
rose-tipped  cirrhus  in  the  pale  sky;  and  farther  be- 
yond, at  the  black  and  jagged  mountain-ridge 
above  which  streamed  the  trailing  yellow  lights  of  the 
vanished  sun.  But  she  was  staring  beyond  and  farther 
still,  and  watching  with  inner  vision  the  sunset  as 
it  might  appear  from  a  ship  westward  bound  across 
the  violet  sea.  .  .  . 

There  came  into  her  consciousness  the  sound  of  slow 
footsteps  on  the  rough  path.  She  did  not  turn  as  she 
wondered  idly  whether  this  was  Sister  Teresa  ready  to 
chide  her;  or  Monica,  to  make  her  laugh;  or  Ursula,  to 
torment  her  with  the  presence  of  a  sainthood  to  which 
she  might  never  attain. 

But  the  voice  that  said,  "  Good-evening  to  you,  Folly," 
from  the  depths  of  the  brier-grown  arbour,  belonged  to 

354 


Folly 

none  of  these;  and  brought  the  dreamer  to  her  feet  in  a 
maze. 

"  Materkin !   How  ever  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"In  the  usual  way,"  was  the  composed  answer. 
"You  look  as  if  you  suspected  a  magic  carpet  up  my 
sleeve."  The  little  old  lady  blossomed  into  dimples  as 
she  came  forward,  looking  as  much  at  home  as  in  her 
own  garden. 

"What  have  you  come  for?"  asked  Folly,  pressing 
back  into  the  hedge. 

But  Mrs.  Christie  advanced  still  further,  and  caught 
her.  "You,  my  girl.  It's  time  to  be  coming  home." 

"Home— where?" 

"Well,  to  England,  speaking  generally.  To  a  work- 
house, asylum  or  orphanage,  if  no  other  place  is  open 
to  you." 

But  Folly  was  bent  on  her  own  train  of  thought. 

"Who  brought  you  here?" 

"Guess  now.  Myself?  Susan?  Nobody?  That 
silly  Andrew  had  me  swathed  inches-deep  in 
cotton  wool,  and  handled  me  like  a  box  of  loose 
eggs,  when  I  wanted  to  be  gadding  about  and  seeing 
things.  Fancy,  at  his  age,  treating  a  poor  old 
mother  so!" 

"Did  he  send  you?" 

"Not  he." 

"Bring  you  then?" 

"My  dear  child,  he  came  back  and  fetched  me — by 
slow  stages — like  a  royal  progress." 

255 


Folly 

' '  Came  back  ?    Where  from  ? ' ' 

"To  the  best  of  my  belief,  from  Espinal  itself." 

"O  poor  Andrew — here?  And  I  never  dreamed 
that  he  would  stay  ..." 

"What  possible  difference  could  it  have  made  to 
you?"  the  old  lady  asked  shrewdly. 

"Oh,  none  of  course;  but  I  am  a — there's  no  word 
bad  enough  for  me.  And  I've  been  trying  to  learn,  too; 
but  the  lesson  is  hard.  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  burden  to 
anybody;  and  I'm  out  of  the  way  here,  and  the  Sisters 
are  kind.  ..." 

"  You  can't  help  being  a  burden  to  somebody,  so  you 
must  get  even  by  letting  somebody  else  be  a  burden  to 
you." 

She  saw  that  she  had  pricked  more  deeply  than  she 
intended,  and  hastened  to  add: 

"So  come  home  with  me,  and  let  us  be  a  burden  to 
each  other." 

"I  can't  think  of  it"— began  Folly. 

"Oh,  well,  then,  I  must  wait,  and  explore  the  coun- 
try, until  you  can  begin  to  think  of  it.  Bless  you,  child, 
I  haven't  had  such  an  outing  for  years!" 

"It's  no  good — your  waiting,"  protested  Folly. 

"  Why  not  ?  I've  nothing  better  to  do.  Susan  is  with 
me,  and  I'm  sure  the  Sisters  will  make  us  very  com- 
fortable. In  ten  years  or  twenty,  you  may  be  ready  to 
change  your  mind." 

"It's  ridiculous!"  said  Folly. 

"  What — your  changing  your  mind  ?  " 
25.6 


Folly 

"No,  I  mean,  to  be  besieged  by  you — and — and 
Andrew  in  this  way." 

"  Nonsense,  it  makes  a  change  in  our  humdrum  lives, 
and  if  you  find  us  a  bore,  we  shall  just  have  to  lie 
low.  ..." 

"You  see,  you  don't  know  the  whole  story,"  urged 
Folly.  "If  you  did  ..." 

"Fiddlesticks!  I've  heard  all  I  want  to  know  from 
Andrew.  I'll  wait  for  the  rest  until  you're  a  trifle  more 
cheerful." 

"Cheerful— O  mater!" 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  surely  do  look  forward  to  being 
rather  more  cheerful  some  day,  don't  you  ?  I  thought 
I  was  being  cautious.  Mind  you,  I  said  only  'a  trifle.' " 

But  at  Folly's  look,  the  transparent  jewelled  hands 
went  out  and  drew  her  close.  "I  know.  The  present 
is  everything.  I  know.  I  know." 

After  a  time,  Folly  lifted  her  head  saying  earnestly: 
" It  isn't  a  question  of  doing  right,  mater;  if  I  could  only 
make  myself  be  right.  .  .  .But  there's  another  me  in 
me  .  .  ." 

"Now  that's  philosophy,"  said  the  old  lady  briskly, 
"  and  we  must  get  away  from  it  as  fast  as  we  can.  Oh, 
I  know  all  about  the  Me  and  the  Not-Me,  the  Ego  and 
the  Non-Ego,  and  the  rest  of  the  rubbish.  And  a  lot  of 
suicides  they  are  responsible  for,  too."  She  lifted  her 
glass  to  study  a  bit  of  red  lichen  on  the  wall.  "Look 
here,  now,  I'll  tell  you  what  you're  trying  to  do;  you're 
trying  to  stand  outside  yourself  and  study  your  own 
17  257 


Folly 

anatomy.  Suppose  you  had  been  a  beetle — you  might 
well  have  been  a  beetle  but  for  some  trifling  accident. 
Should  you  try  to  stand  on  your  shell  and  see  how  you 
were  made?  It's  in  the  nature  of  the  case  that  no 
beetle  can  talk  like  a  Huxley  about  his  own  organs.  Sen- 
sible beetles  study  only  their  neighbour  ants  and  grass- 
hoppers, and  the  flies  that  they  catch  for  dinner — do  you 
see  my  parable?" 

"What  flies  shall  I  catch  for  my  dinner?"  asked 
Folly  wistfully. 

"  Come  to  Westmouth  and  we  shall  see." 

But  Folly  was  looking  again  at  the  black  mountain 
that  hides  the  western  ocean;  and  her  thoughts  were 
with  the  ship  that  had  sailed  beyond  her  reach  forever. 

"You  think  I  don't  know  how  it  hurts?  Why,  girl, 
I  lost  Andrew's  father.  And  I  was  young  then;  and 
for  a  time  all  my  faith  in  life  was  torn  to  rags.  But  I 
had  to  set  to  work  a- mending  it;  and  in  time,  oh  yes, 
in  time,  I  found  that  I  had  a  more  beautiful  thing  than 
before.  And  since  we  are  talking  in  parables :  charity, 
now,  that's  a  whole  stuff,  the  robe  of  the  spirit,  always 
strong,  always  fresh,  lasting  a  life-time;  and  hope  is 
like  a  tapestry  never-ended,  into  which  we  weave 
our  daily  dreams;  but  faith,  that's  a  frail  heirloom, 
always  tearing,  always  mended;  but  where  we  stitch 
at  it,  often  with  tears,  we  find  that  not  merely  have 
we  made  it  good,  but  we  have  embroidered  it  over 
with  the  treasures  of  our  own  lives,  so  that  in  the  end 

it  is  a  sacrificial  garment Why  must  I   always 

258 


Folly 

be  talking  nonsense  ?    The  air  is  rather  chilly.    Shall 
we  go  in  ?  " 

"Will  you  take  my  arm?"  said  Folly. 

Mrs.  Christie  laid  her  lace-mittened  hand  upon  it, 
patting  it  softly  now  and  again,  as  they  paced  along  by  the 
wall;  and  presently  the  old  lady  pointed  to  the  little 
town  whence  lights  were  beginning  to  leap  out  among 
the  blue  shadows.  "  Espinal,"  she  said.  "  It  is  time 
to  leave  it  now." 

"You  know  what  it  means,  mater?  I'm  afraid  I 
must  carry  its  thorns  with  me  wherever  I  go." 

"  No,  leave  it  all — leave  it, "  was  the  emphatic  an 
swer.  "I  tell  you,  you  can." 

Folly  smiled  her  unbelief. 

As  they  turned  into  the  forecourt,  among  the  olean 
ders,  Mrs.  Christie  said  further: 

"When  you  come  to  me,  you  need  not  fear  being 
troubled  by  Andrew.  He  will  take  us  home,  that's  all. 
You  won't  mind  that  ?  " 

"But  I  can't  be  the  means  of  parting  you." 

"Parting  us?  He  can  climb  the  garden- wall  by 
night,  and  I'll  meet  him  Juliet-fashion,  weather  per- 
mitting." 

"But  you  are  his  mother!" 

"Yours  too;  and  you  need  me  most — just  now." 

"  But  people  would  say  ..." 

"A  fig!    We  can  stop  them — or  cut  them." 

"But    I    should    be   so    good-for-nothing — such   a 

drag  ..." 

259 


Folly 

"My  shoulders  are  strong" — she  laughed.  "You 
said  that  before,  but  I  don't  believe  you  there,  you  know. 
You  are  warped.  ..." 

"Ah,  yes." 

"And  we  want  to  bend  you  straight  again." 

Hereupon  Susan  met  them ;  and  then  followed  greet- 
ings and  explanations  and  dinner;  and  Folly  had 
ample  time  to  ponder,  as  perhaps  it  was  intended  that 
she  should  ponder. 

At  all  events,  Mrs.  Christie  presently  managed  it  that 
they  two  should  be  alone,  each  by  a  window  looking  out 
upon  the  star-lit  sky  and  twinkling  lights  of  the  valley. 

But  Folly  was  slow.to  speak. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Christie  at  last. 

"I  can't  stay  here,  you  see." 

"I  know."  She  smiled  to  herself,  thinking  that  the 
priest  was  a  wise  man,  and  that  when  he  and  her  An- 
drew had  put  their  heads  together,  they  were  bound  to 
be  right,  as  in  this  case. 

"I  love  the  Sisters,  but  their  way  is  not  mine.  They 
have  renounced  this  life;  I  must  go  on  seeking  till  I 
find — the  way  to  live  it." 

"You  will  find  it,"  was  the  soft  answer.  "And  you 
will  come  home  with  me?" 

"Wait  till  you  hear  the  whole  story;  I  can  tell  it 
now." 

She  told  it  without  flinching,  without  sparing  her- 
self, or  reserving  the  shadow  of  an  excuse;  and  when 

she  had  done,  she  asked : 

260 


Folly 

"Can  you  not  see?" 

"  Better  than  you  think — much  better,  child.  And  I 
say  again,  the  only  way  is  to  come  home  with  me. 
Tear  out  the  thorns,  and  set  to  work  a-mending.  It's 
the  only  decent  thing  to  do." 

One  long  moment  Folly  hesitated;  then  she  threw 
herself  into  the  loving  arms  held  out  to  her.  "Teach  me 
your  way,  mother!" 


261 


BOOK  III. 
THE  FOOTPATH-WAY. 


"  They  that  have  the  true  gift  of  love  eschew  the 
clamorous  highroads  where  men  jostle  one  another  as 
they  press  forward  to  the  City  of  Triumph  ;  and  seek 
rather  the  foot-paths  of  humble  service,  and  enter 
the  more  speedily  into  the  dwelling  of  Peace." 

J.  HALDANE  GORE,  Commonplace-Book. 
(Unpublished.) 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

WISDOM  AT  CHELSEA. 

GREGORY  drove  to  Chelsea  one  afternoon  in  June 
with  trouble  in  his  heart;  and,  knowing  by  long  experi- 
ence where  Mrs.  Patrick  was  likely  to  be,  tapped  at  the 
door  of  her  studio. 

It  was  a  discouraged  "Come  in!"  that  greeted  him. 

"I  knew  it  was  you" — she  stretched  out  a  listless 
hand  from  a  low  chair,  whence  she  was  contemplating 
a  large  canvas.  "Nobody  else  has  such  a  genius  for 
coming  at  inopportune  times." 

Her  Liberty  pinafore  was  spotless,  as  were  her  fin- 
gers, and  her  hair  was  not  in  artistic  disarray, — facts 
which  a  shrewd  casual  observer  might  have  interpreted 
as  possibly  connected  with  the  inopportune  visit. 

"It's  nearly  tea-time,"  he  strove  to  excuse  himself. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

She  pointed  to  the  picture,  with  an  expression  of 
pouting  disgust. 

He  looked,  but  was  none  the  wiser.    "Well?" 

"I  did  it." 

"  Did  you  ?    It's  very  nice." 

"Go  on  blackening  your  soul" — she  relaxed  a  little, 
265 


Folly 

and  twinkled  at  him.  "Can  you  honestly  say  you 
like  it?" 

"I  don't  know  much  about  such  things,"  he  fenced. 
"I  never  bought  a  picture  in  my  life." 

"Shame — to  confess  it!  But  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  it — not  perjury,  honest  criticism." 

"Isn't  it  rather — er,  large?" 

"Go  on" — she  was  non-committal. 

"Look  here,  I  refuse  to  be  bullied  into  making  a  fool 
of  myself.  Let's  talk  about  something  else,  or  I'll  cate- 
chise you  on  bacteria." 

She  submitted  gracefully.  "You  needn't  go  on  then. 
But  I'll  tell  you  the  fact:  it's  a  plain  failure,  and  so 
am  I." 

"In  what  way?"  he  inquired,  with  due  respect. 

"It  lacks  soul,  and  so  do  I." 

He  pretended  to  reach  for  his  prescription-book. 
"Two  grains  of — eh ?  Soul  is  the  power  of  the  smooth- 
running  machine,  and  when  the  machine  gets  out  of 
gear  ..." 

"But  it  isn't;  my  body  is  most  unsympathetically 
healthy." 

"A  sick  soul  in  a  plump  little  frame" — he  teased  her. 

"Unkind!    I  can't  help  being  plump  and  little" 

"But  why  on  earth  should  you  want  to  be  other- 
wise?" 

She  ignored  the  compliment.  "  The  real  difficulty  isn't 
that  my  soul  is  sick.  I  haven't  got  one;  I  must  have 

been  born  without  it." 

266 


Folly 

"  Perhaps  it  never  grew  up  with  the  rest  of  you,"  he 
said,  "  but  it  must  be  rattling  about  somewhere.  We'll 
find  it  one  day — or  I'm  not  a  surgeon.  But  all  this  non- 
sensical talk  is  a  new  phase.  What  has  gone  wrong? 
Who  has  been  abusing  you  ?  " 

"A  critic.  He  said  I  was  a  clever  woman  but  lacked 
soul." 

"By  Jove,  that's  the  new  book!  And  I  promised  to 
read  it.  How  long  has  it  been  out?"  He  looked  con- 
science-stricken. 

"Nearly  a  fortnight.  And  quite  naturally  you  forgot 
all  about  it.  No,  don't  waste  time  over  it.  You'll  be 
better  off  with  your  bacteria." 

"I've  been  a  good  deal  worried  lately,"  he  continued 
in  self-defence. 

Her  manner  changed  at  once.   "Anything  special?" 

"Go  on.  Tell  me  all  your  troubles  first.  I'll  wait 
my  turn." 

"They  sound  very  foolish  and  petty  when  I  come  to 
speak  of  them;  but,  you  see,  I've  been  hearing  a  few 
plain  truths  about  myself,  and  I  never  did  have  any 
philosophy  ..." 

"Luckily,"  he  interposed. 

"And  it  isn't  a  pleasing  picture." 

"What  else  did  the  objectionable  man — I  gather  it 
was  a  man — say?" 

"He  was  polite.  He  said  I  had  a  pretty  feminine 
touch." 

"Well,  what  harm  does  that  do?" 
267 


Folly 

"It  smashes  me." 

"You  don't  look  smashed. 

"  Professionally,  I  mean." 

"Oh — professionally" — he  lost  interest  at  once. 

"  Now,  however  much  I  try,  I  can  never  be  anything 
more  than  a  minnow  swimming  about  the  surface  of  a 
pond  ..." 

"When  you  want  to  be  a  whale  burrowing  in  the 
depths  of  the  ocean — is  that  it?" 

"Well,  my  friends  always  told  me  I  had  talent" 

If  she  expected  a  compliment,  she  was  disappointed. 
"If  I  had  to  choose  between  the  two,  I  greatly  prefer 
the  minnow — for  daily  life,"  said  he.  "  But  where  does 
the  picture  come  in?" 

"Ah,  that's  the  point.  Now  that  the  scales  are  off 
my  eyes,  I  can  see  that  it's  clever,  too,  and  feminine 
and  pretty." 

"And  so ?" 

"And  so" — she  sighed  heavily — "I  shall  give  up 
both  and  live  on  my  income." 

"Bravo!"  said  he;  and  his  unusually  sober  face,  at 
which  she  had  already  cast  various  sidelong  glances,  was 
lighted  for  a  moment  by  a  gleam  of  genuine  pleasure. 

She  looked  at  him  dubiously.  "I'm  not  fated,  it 
seems,  to  be  a  professional  woman." 

"Thank  heaven  for  that" — the  look  of  pleasure  lin- 
gered— "  as  I  do.  She's  a  curious  amphibian,  still  the 
professional  woman.  Personally,  I've  no  use  for  her." 

She  leaned  towards  him  a  little,  dimpling  as  she  whis- 
268 


Folly 

pered.  "Nor  have  I.  But  it's  heresy  to  say  so  now-a- 
days.  I  didn't  want  to  go  in  for  anything ;  but  they  all 
told  me  I'd  got  talent,  and  it  was  such  a  pity  to  waste 
it." 

His  face  had  grown  sober  again.  He  asked  absently : 
"What  did  you  want  to  go  in  for?" 

Mabel  looked  at  him  sideways,  her  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap.  Now  was  her  opportunity.  He  had  been  un- 
commonly slow,  and  had  required  much  delicate  lead- 
ing; but  at  last  they  had  reached  the  point.  So  looking, 
she  saw  the  genuine  trouble  in  his  face,  no  longer 
disguised;  and  forgetting  all  about  herself,  and  her 
hopes  and  fears,  she  exclaimed:  "Oh,  what  is  the 
matter?  Can't  I  help?" 

"I  came  to  you  for  help,"  he  answered  simply.  "I 
had  a  letter  this  morning  from  Haldane  Gore " 

"Oh!"— her  hand  went  out  to  him.  "But  I 
thought " 

"Yes,  he  is  dead.  It  was  forwarded  to  me  by  our 
consul " 

Mrs.  Patrick's  little  ringers  were  most  sympathetic. 

"In  New  York." 

"In  New  York?" 

"Yes.    He  died  there— at  Castle  Garden." 

"Castle  Garden— what's  that?" 

"It's  a  place  where  they  land  emigrants,  I  believe." 

"Oh!" — her  other  hand  stole  out  and  was  likewise 
seized.  "  But  what  was  he  doing  there  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  day;   it's  a  strange 
269 


Folly 

story.  I  can't — just  yet.  But  there's  a  practical  matter 
on  which  I  must  have  your  advice.  The  consul  en- 
closed another  letter.  ..." 

"Well?" 

"For  Mrs.  Christie." 

"Folly— yes." 

"I  suppose  he  did  not  know  how  to  reach  her." 

"I  suppose  not." 

Mabel's  bright  eyes  were  full  of  consideration,  and 
she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  where  her  hands  were. 
"You  can't  send  it  by  post.  You  might  take  it  your- 
self, or  I  might,  or  we  might  leave  it  to  materkin;  but 
I  think  there's  a  better  way." 

"Well?" 

"Give  it  to  Andrew." 

"  Exactly.    I  wondered  if  you  would  say  that." 

"And  leave  it  entirely  in  his  hands." 

"Yes." 

"He  would  be  perfectly  fair,  and  you  could  trust 
him  absolutely." 

"Just  so." 

"You  see" — she  grew  more  eager  over  her  theme — 
"it's  for  his  sake  as  well  as  hers;  it  puts  on  him  the 
responsibility  of  deciding  and  of  acting." 

"What  is  he  doing  now?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Poor  Andrew!  Roving,  I  be- 
lieve, and  loafing.  He's  in  town  for  a  few  days — came 
to  see  me  yesterday." 

"Where  is  she?" 

270 


Folly 

"Still  at  Westmouth,  I  believe.  I  haven't  had  a 
word  from  her  since  they  came  back;  but  dear  old 
materkin  sends  me  a  line  in  her  own  hand  now  and 
again.  Folly  has  all  Haldane's  papers,  you  know.  I 
believe  she  lives  among  them  night  and  day.  I  know 
materkin  is  distressed,  though  she  tries  to  make  light 
of  it." 

"It's  very  bad  for  all  of  them.  Do  you  think  they 
will  ever  get  out  of  the  tangle  ?  " 

Mabel  shook  her  head.  "Who  can  say?"  Then  she 
suddenly  remembered  her  hands,  blushed  and  tried  in 
vain  to  withdraw  them;  and  to  cover  her  confusion, 
added  hastily:  "That's  why  I  want  to  throw  in  my 
mite  of  help,  you  see.  It  would  give  them  a  chance  to 
make  it  up — I  mean,  the  letter  would.  Poor  Hal- 
dane!  Do  you  know,  I  sometimes  fancy,  quite  by  my- 
self— I  mean  without  any  hint  or  suggestion  from  any- 
body— that  he  would  have  been  glad  to  have  them 
brought  together." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  he  asked,  still  keeping  her 
prisoner. 

"It's  difficult  to  explain." 

"Please  try." 

"I  can't  unless  you  let  me  go." 

He  released  her  then,  but  held  her  as  much  by  his 
look. 

"I  suppose  they  call  it  psychology,  those  that  under- 
stand it;  but  to  me  it's  only  the  result  of  observation. 

I  have  noticed  that  there  are  some  people  in  the  world 

271 


Folly 

who  have — well,  what  is  commonly  called  tempera- 
ment. It  must  be  a  fearful  curse,  you  know.  They 
seem  to  be  nearly  always  the  victims  of  delusions;  they 
can't  live  by  facts  alone,  and  they're  always  finding 
their  delusions  stuffed  with  sawdust  or  air  or  something 
equally  not  nourishing;  so  between  the  two  they 
starve.  I  think  I'd  better  stick  to  that  one  case.  I 
suppose  to  them  their  love  was  like  an  old  romance — 
'Tristan  and  Isolde,'  you  know.  But — am  I  all 
wrong,  or  isn't  that  kind  of  thing  bound  to  end  in 
a  tragedy?  Even  when  King  Mark  is  a  good  man 
and  keeps  out  of  the  way,  it  doesn't  do  for  daily 
life,  does  it  ?  Suppose  he  hadn't  been  ill,  would  she 
have  gone  in  the  end,  do  you  think?  Does  that  sort 
of — of — attraction,  shall  I  call  it  ? — I  mean,  is  it  really 
irresistible?" 

He  shook  his  head  slightly,  but  decidedly. 

"Because  if  it  is,  this  world  is  only  a  series  of  pit- 
falls. And  I  don't  think  it  is — for  most  of  us,  anyway. 
Now  I  tell  you  frankly:  if  I  had  been  in  her  place,  I 
should  never  have  gone.  Perhaps  I  lack  imagination. 
I  should  just  have  fretted  and  cried,  I  suppose,  until  I 
had  worn  out  the  worst  of  my  trouble,  and  then  I 
should  have  gone  on  living  in  the  usual  way.  It's  what 
most  of  us  do." 

"And  if  I  had  been  in  his  place?"  he  asked. 

"You  would  never  have  broken  down  as  he  did." 

"But  it  was  disease  that  conquered  him,"  was  Greg- 
ory's defence  of  his  friend. 

272 


Folly 

"Well,  they  have  paid — poor  things!  But  I  am  very 
slow  in  coming  to  my  point.  Knowing  what  I  know 
and  what  you  have  told  me,  I  don't  see  at  all  why  there 
isn't  room  still  in  her  life  and  Andrew's  for  the  common 
everyday  love,  which  is  the  only  kind  that  most  of  us 
come  to  know." 

"It  may  be,"  he  conceded,  "if  they  could  be  made 
to  see  it.  But  I  have  got  what  I  came  for;  you  confirm 
my  judgment  on  every  point." 

"Which  was  all  you  wanted,"  said  she.  "Suppose  I 
had  disagreed  with  you  on  every  point?" 

"You  wouldn't  have  done  that — in  a  vital  matter," 
he  insisted. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  you  are  what  you  are" — he  hesitated. 

She,  reading  in  his  eyes  the  approach  of  that  which 
she  had  previously  diverted,  said  hastily:  "Anyway, 
whenever  my  opinion  is  worth  anything  to  you,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  give  it." 

"Always?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  and  smiled  at  him,  without  a  trace  of 
coquetry. 

"Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?"  he  asked 
further. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said,  "but  we  must  not  talk  any 
more  about  it  now." 

So  they  had  their  brief  moment  of  happiness  in  the 
shadow  of  grief — a  moment  cut  short  by  Mabel,  who 

sent  Gregory  away  to  fulfil  his  trust. 
18  273 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  DELICATE  MISSION. 

GREGORY  was  fortunate  in  having  no  long  search  for 
Christie;  after  telephoning  once  or  twice,  he  found  him 
by  accident  in  the  smoking-room  of  their  club.  They 
had  had  a  slight  acquaintance  for  some  years;  but  no 
chance  had  ever  brought  them  into  friendship.  And 
on  this  day,  as  Gregory  was  driving  down  Piccadilly, 
he  happened  to  see  his  man  by  the  window,  half  hid- 
den behind  an  illustrated  paper. 

Gregory  went  in  and  began  to  fumble  among  the 
journals  and  magazines  on  the  table  at  which  Christie 
sat;  but  did  not  succeed  in  attracting  the  latter's  atten- 
tion until  he  asked,  awkwardly  enough,  with  the  sheet 
still  between  them,  "Any  news?" 

Then  Christie  put  down  his  paper  and  nodded  and 
said:  "Not  much." 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?  Oh,  Up-to-Date — that's  a 
stupid  production,  isn't  it?  I  never  see  it."  Christie 
was  not  responsive,  and  Gregory  found  his  position 
increasingly  difficult,  as  he  continued :  "  By  the  way,  I 
have  an  errand — a  commission — I  scarcely  know  what 

to  call  it — to  you.    My  friend,  Haldane  Gore " 

274 


Folly 

Christie  lifted  his  paper  slightly  from  the  table  and 
dropped  it  again.  "I've  just  been  reading  about  it." 

"What?  Already?  There?"  groaned  Gregory, 
reaching  for  the  sheet. 

"Yes — with  full  details  and  illustrations,"  answered 
Christie. 

"They  have  been  quick,"  said  Gregory  painfully. 
"These  correspondents — can't  they  let  a  man  die  in 
peace?  I  got  the  cable  only  last  week." 

"They  make  out  that  he  was  a  famous  man,"  said 
Christie,  with  reserve. 

"Now  that  he  is  dead.  How  he  would  have  hated 
all  this!" 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  discuss  him  with  me  ?"  asked 
Christie  brusquely. 

"Well — yes,  in  a  way.  At  least,  among  his  papers 
was  found  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Christie.  Everything  was 
sent  on  to  me;  and  I  was  asked  to  forward " 

"Well" — Christie  shrugged — "do  you  want  her 
address?  Is  that  it?" 

"No,  that  I  happen  to  know  from  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Patrick." 

"Then  why  do  you  come  to  me?"  demanded  Christie 
somewhat  roughly. 

"Why,  don't  you  see,  man,  I  can't  send  such  a  letter 
on  by  post?" 

Christie  looked  at  him  hard  for  a  moment,  then 
grew  abstracted.  "That  reminds  me."  He  then 

perceived  that  Gregory  was  waiting,  and  added:   "I'm 

275 


sorry,  I  was  remembering  that  Up-to-Date  goes  down 
to  Westmouth  every  day;  and  unless  the  mater 
happens  to  be  the  one  who  opens  it  ...  I'd  better 
telegraph,  I  think.  What  were  you  saying  ?  Oh,  by 
post  ?  Well,  get  a  messenger  then.  How  does  it  con- 
cern me?" 

"I  thought  you  might  wish  to  be  the  messenger," 
said  Gregory,  finding  his  opportunity. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Christie's  face  went  redder. 

"Only  that  it  seems  best  to  me  to  put  the  letter 
into  your  hands." 

After  a  pause,  Christie  said:  "If  you  are  acting  as 
Gore's  friend,  I  must  confess  that  your  procedure 
seems  to  me  a  little  unusual." 

"  I  know  my  man,"  said  Gregory ;  and  then :  "  May  I 
venture  to  say  both  men  ?  " 

Christie  shrugged  and  pared  away  the  edges  of  the 
newspaper  before  him.  "What  do  you  expect  me  to 
do?" 

"I?    Nothing,  naturally.    That  is  your  affair." 

"You  wash  your  hands  of  the  responsibility?  And 
you  have  no  fear  of  betraying — your  friend  ?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Huh!"  said  Christie,  and  slashed  viciously  at  the 
paper.  And  after  a  while:  "A  letter  is  a  letter,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it;  I'll  take  it,  if  you  like.  I  was 
thinking  of  going  down  soon,  anyway.  I  haven't  seen 
my  mother  since  we  came  home  from  abroad.  I  can 

just  as  well  make  it  to-day." 

276 


Folly 

There  was  apparently  nothing  more  to  be  said;  but 
Gregory  still  lingered,  pulling  at  his  beard,  and  Christie 
made  no  move  to  go. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  latter,  after  a  time,  "that  I 
may  talk  to  you  more  freely  from  the  fact  that  you 
were — so  to  speak — professionally  mixed  up  in  the  case. 
Not  that  there  is  anything  much  to  say." 

"I  suspended  judgment  myself  long  ago — couldn't 
get  any  satisfactory  diagnosis,  you  see.  No  doubt  there 
may  be  cases  now  and  then  in  which  you  have  all  the 
conditions  for  an  electric  battery;  given  the  poles  and 
communication,  you're  bound  to  have  the  current. 
Oh,  I  talked  differently  on  the  spot;  but  there's  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  their  side  as  well.  Still,  I  prefer  to 
withhold  my  opinion." 

"I  don't  know.  You  seem  to  be  exonerating  two  of 
the  actors,  and  omitting  the  third,"  said  Christie. 

"I'm  neither  exonerating  nor  condemning.    I  don't 
know  enough  yet  to  do  either." 

"Yet?    You  expect  to  know  more,  some  day?" 

"A  thousand  years  hence — who  can  tell?  There's 
no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  know  something  about 
souls,  when  we  have  found  out  all  that  is  to  be  learned 
about  bodies.  At  present,  we  are  only  beginning  to 
understand  the  rudiments  of  physiology — the  other  is 
a  long  way  off.  But  I  don't  despair." 

"Ah,  yes,  you  have  been  trying  to  find  the  cure  for 
cancer,  haven't  you?"  asked  Christie,  perhaps  not 

aware  of  the  depth  of  his  stab. 

277 


Folly 

Gregory  winced.  "  I  am  trying.  I  shall  go  on,  even 
though  I  failed  to  save  the  life  of  my  friend." 

Christie  looked  up  with  compunction.  "What  I 
should  have  said  is,  that  if  diagnosis  seems  to  you  im- 
possible, how  about  treatment?" 

"I  tried  interference,"  said  Gregory.  "I  argued  the 
matter  from  my  point  of  view,  which  is  more  or  less  that 
generally  held.  But  is  the  majority  always  right?  I 
only  hope  I  did  no  harm." 

"My  own  policy  is  always  non-interference,"  said 
Christie.  "  Beyond  that  I  cannot  go," 

"To  me  that  seems  only  reasonable,"  said  Gregory, 
"but  ..." 

"  But  if  the  world  were  ruled  by  reason — you  were 
about  to  say  ?"  Christie  took  him  up. 

"Something  like  that." 

"I  suppose  one  forgets  to  be  reasonable  with  the  un- 
reasonable, just  as  one  finds  it  hard  to  be  tolerant  with 
the  intolerant." 

"There's  another  thing,"  pursued  Gregory.  "To 
return  to  the  medical  analogy  for  a  moment,  after  all, 
it's  the  patient  who  cures  himself.  Only  we  must  clear 
the  way — give  working-room,  so  to  speak.  I  mean, 
after  we  have  eliminated  the  obstacles,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible we  should  bring  it  about,  as  far  as  we  can,  that 
the  faculties  have  free  play,  and  avoid  stagnation — 
look  to  it  that  they  do  play." 

"I  see  your  point,"  said  Christie,  still  intent  upon  the 

destruction  of  his  paper.    "You  have  given  me  some- 

278 


Folly 

thing  to  think  about.  In  this  case,  the  chief  obstacle 
was,  of  course  ..." 

It  seemed  as  if  Gregory  shrank  from  using  the  name 
in  this  connection.  He  said  only:  "At  least,  it  is  re- 
moved; and  you  have  a  free  hand." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.''  Christie  looked  up 
abruptly.  "I incline  to  think  that  it  has  existed  all 
along  chiefly  in  the  mind  of — of  the  patient;  and  that 
consequently  it  may  grow  exaggerated  by  this — dis- 
aster"— he  indicated  the  paper  before  him.  "Is  time 
always  a  healer?" 

"Pretty  well,  pretty  well,"  answered  Gregory. 
"  But  we  always  want  things  done  in  such  a  hurry." 

"You  may  not  know,  perhaps,"  said  Christie,  "that 
when  I  was  in  Biarritz,  Gore  wired  for  me  to  come  over 
to  Espinal." 

"I  suspected  something  of  the  sort,"  answered  Gre- 
gory. "I  see  the  whole  thing  now:  how  he  got  away 
and  how  you  came  to  bring  her  back." 

"I  tell  you  this,"  continued  Christie,  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  has  a  hard  lesson  to  say,  but  must  get  it  out 
somehow,  "because,  as  his  friend,  you  may  care  to 
know  that  there  was  no  ill  feeling  between  us  when  we 
parted." 

"  Some  day  you  will  be  glad  to  remember  that,"  were 
Gregory's  only  words,  but  his  face  was  more  eloquent. 

Christie  looked  at  his  watch.  "Have  you  that  letter 
with  you?  I  see  I  have  just  time  for  the  express.  I 

may  as  well  get  the  business  over." 

279 


Folly 

He  smiled  rather  grimly  as  he  took  the  envelope. 
"It  would  be  temptingly  easy  to  destroy  it." 

"But  how  would  that  help  your  case?"  demanded 
Gregory. 

"My  good  fellow," — Christie  was  vehement — "would 
any  medicine  on  earth  help  my  case  ?  Months  ago  I 
gave  it  up  as  hopeless."  He  rose  to  go. 

"There  you're  out,"  insisted  Gregory;  and  wondered 
helplessly  what  he  should  say  next.  "At  least,"  he 
added  lamely,  "I  am  convinced  that  your  future 
lies  in  your  own  hands." 

Thereupon  the  other  man  gave  a  short  laugh  and 
turned  away. 


280 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DIPLOMACY. 

SHORTLY  before  tea,  that  same  afternoon,  Mrs. 
Christie  knocked  at  Folly's  door  to  say:  "I  hope  you 
won't  mind,  dear.  I've  just  had  a  telegram  from  An- 
drew to  say  that  he's  coming  down  by  the  express." 

"I  shall  go  out,"  was  Folly's  swift  thought,  as  she 
put  her  arms  about  a  mass  of  papers  lying  on  the  table 
before  her. 

She  did  not  divine  the  old  lady's  diplomacy  in  sug- 
gesting: "You  might  go  somewhere,  you  know,  if 
you'd  rather  not  see  him.  Would  you  like  another  sail 
now?  There's  not  a  breath  of  wind,  so  I  won't  be 
anxious  about  you,  as  I  was  last  time." 

Then  Folly  said,  as  she  was  expected  to  say:  "I 
don't  see  why  I  should.  We  shall  have  to  meet  some- 
times, I  suppose." 

"Well,  well,  as  you  please."  Mrs.  Christie  went 
away  chuckling. 

It  pleased  Folly  to  dress  more  carefully  than  usual. 
She  had  a  dim  feeling  that  she  did  not  want  to  stir  An- 
drew's pity  or  contempt,  or  to  give  him  an  opportunity 

to  label  her  frowsy,  as  she  had  often  heard  him  sum  up 

281 


Folly 

other  women.  Besides,  it  had  been  a  reproach  of  her 
young  days  that  she  dressed  badly. 

When  she  had  done,  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass, 
very  pale  in  her  black  lawn  with  its  narrow  hem- 
stitched collar  and  cuffs  of  white  linen.  She  wondered 
that  she  had  not  noticed  before  her  haggard  face  and 
harsh,  colourless  hair;  and  with  a  sudden,  quite  sur- 
prising desire  to  add  a  little  grace  went  out  into 
the  garden  for  a  bunch  of  purple  lilac. 

Christie  arrived  just  as  they  were  beginning  tea, 
which  Folly  was  pouring.  She  hastily  set  down  the  tea- 
pot, and  without  looking  up,  gave  him  her  hand.  He 
greeted  her  courteously,  as  frank  and  unembarrassed, 
it  seemed  to  her,  as  any  ordinary  visitor.  And  when  she 
had  made  his  cup  to  his  liking,  he  took  it  away  at  once 
and  sat  down  at  his  mother's  little  table,  apparently 
telling  her  some  joke  or  funny  story,  as  she  judged  from 
the  way  that  they  laughed  together. 

Neither  of  them  paid  any  attention  to  Folly,  who, 
though  feeling  very  much  out  in  the  cold,  could  not 
make  up  her  mind  to  join  them,  and  so  solaced  her  tea 
with  a  novel  that  she  picked  up  from  the  table. 

They  gossipped  and  squabbled  together  in  a  way  that 
she  remembered  from  the  very  early  days  of  her  court- 
ship. Nor  did  she  have  a  word  or  look  from  either  of 
them  until  Andrew  brought  his  mother's  cup  to  be 
filled. 

"Are  you  pretty  well?"  he  asked  then,  watching  her. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  she  answered  curtly. 
282 


Folly 

"I'm  glad  of  that" — but  his  calm  tone,  sincere  as  it 
was,  angered  her. 

As  soon  as  she  could  do  so  with  grace,  she  left  mother 
and  son  together,  protesting  that  the  novel  she  had 
picked  up  was  so  absorbing  that  she  could  not  put  it 
down. 

Immediately  he  dropped  his  bantering  tone:  "You 
got  my  telegram,  of  course  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was  a  mercy.  I  had  the  newspapers  in  my 
own  room  when  she  came  asking  for  them.  I  suppose 
she  expects  every  day — to  hear  something  of  the  sort." 

"You  know  then?" 

"I  read  some  of  the  accounts — there  were  several." 

"Yes.  I  bought  other  papers  on  the  train.  I 
suppose  she'll  have  to  see  them  afterwards — but 
somehow,  mater,  I  don't  fancy  the  task  of  breaking 
the  news." 

"It  requires  tact,"  she  said,  and  tried  to  cheer  him 
up:  "You're  my  son,  you  know." 

"Yes,  and  strongly  inclined  to  hide  behind  your 
apron,  too." 

"Fie,  fie,"  she  admonished  him.  "Shame  upon 
you!  No  son  of  mine  ever  hides  behind  any  apron. 
You'll  do  it  properly,  or  I  shall  disown  you!" 

"More  than  that,  I've  got  a  letter  to  deliver,  sent  to 
Gregory." 

"I  see.  And  he,  being  a  sensible  man,  brought  it  to 
you.  He  couldn't  have  done  better." 

"But  consider  my  position,  mater." 
283 


Folly 

"Nonsense,  you  don't  need  any  consideration,  sne 
insisted. 

"She  isn't  weU,  is  she?" 

"Now  that  is  hard  to  say.  She's  as  mute  as  per- 
verse Kate.  I  think  the  edge  is  wearing  off  a  little 
— at  least,  it  is  bound  to  in  time.  But  as  long  as  there 
is  any  room  for  doubt,  she'll  make  herself  miserable. 
She's  pretty  strong,  you  know,  only  I  don't  like 
her  mooning  over  those  papers  upstairs.  I  sometimes 
wonder  whether  it  isn't  my  duty  to  go  and  burn  them. 
But  she's  better — I'm  sure  of  that;  she's  quieting 
down." 

"And  now  I've  got  to  stir  it  up  all  again,"  he  groaned. 

"Sometimes  stirring  settles  things — coffee,  for  in- 
stance. How  do  you  think  she  looks  ?" 

"Frowsy,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"Poor  Folly!  And  yet  I  thought  she  was  smarter 
than  usual  to-day,  with  a  spray  of  blossoms  in  her  belt. 
I've  done  my  best  to  interest  her  in  the  outside 
world  and  people.  The  only  thing  she  will  do  is  go  out 
sailing  occasionally." 

Seeing  that  his  forehead  creased,  she  added  hastily: 
"  Oh,  I  don't  let  her  go  alone.  She  wanted  to,  of  course, 
and  pleaded  that  you  had  once  said  she  managed 
a  boat  as  well  as  a  man;  but  I  wouldn't  give  in.  I  said 
I  should  have  hysteria  all  the  time  she  was  out,  and 
should  make  daily  preparations  for  her  coming  home 
drowned;  and  the  picture  was  too  much  for  her.  She 

consented  to  take  a  fisherman;  and  I  selected  my  man 

284 


Folly 

with  care.  I  have  known  the  family  for  generations 
back — never  lost  a  passenger — and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  ..." 

"Right,  materkin,"  said  he,  when  she  paused  for 
breath.  And  after  a  moment  he  seized  both  her  hands, 
asking  abruptly:  "Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  have 
any  show  again  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  not  altogether  free  from  tears  as  she 
answered:  "Isn't  it  rather  odd,  boy,  that  you  still  want 
a  show?" 

"  Perhaps,  but  I  do,"  he  answered  doggedly. 

"Sure?" 

"Sure." 

"If  you  had  the  proper  pride  of  the  British  husband, 
you  would  have  trumped  up  a  divorce- case  long  ago." 

"Possibly,  but  it  would  have  taken  some  lying.  And 
what  of  her,  then?" 

"Yes,  what  of  her?  People  ought  to  know  by  this 
time.  But  you  never  were  quite  orthodox,  son." 

"No,"  he  admitted.  "I  tried  to  be.  I  have  spent 
hours  cursing  her — cursing  them." 

"And  it's  no  good?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  I'm  mortal  sorry  for  the  lot  of  us — that's 
all." 

"  One  is  past  sorrow,"  she  suggested  softly. 

"Yes.  I  haven't  got  used  to  remembering  that  yet. 
.  .  .  The  point  of  the  whole  miserable  business  is,  that 
I  can  neither  cast  her  off  entirely,  nor  settle  down  to  a 

reasonable  life  while  I  am  in  this  state  of  suspense.    I 

285 


Folly 

tell  you,  mater,  what  made  me  realise  their  point  of 
view  more  than  anything  else :  it  was  trying  to  get  up  a 
decent  hatred,  and  finding  out  that  I'd  apparently  got 
to  go  on  loving  her — perhaps  to  the  end  of  my 
days." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "probably.  That's  in  our  blood, 
I  believe.  .  .  .  But  only  this  morning  I  was  reading 
something  that  touches  your  case.  Listen  now."  She 
held  him  by  one  button,  while  she  reached  for  a  thin 
little  volume  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

She  found  the  place  marked  and  read  aloud  in  her 
pretty  quavering  voice : 

"'Now  judge  ye! — For  a  girl  I  walked  forlorn 
Who  laughed  my  vows  to  scorn; 
She  loved  another,  who  in  coin  repaid 
Wooing  a  second  maid. 

And  she,  this  second,  making  all  complete, 
Would  worship  at  my  feet. — 
Four  pretty  fools  and  Kama  with  his  malice 
Thus  drove  me  from  my  palace.' 

What  say  you  to  that?" 

"We  were  only  three  fools;  we  lacked  the  second 
woman." 

"You  miss  the  point  altogether,"  she  retorted,  with 
asperity.  "Are  you  going  to  let  Kama  drive  you  from 
your  palace?" 

"I'm  wondering  how  to  tell  her,"  he  said  absently, 
286 


Folly 

"Come,  come,"  she  took  him  to  task.  "You  are  not 
often  discourteous  to  your  mother.  I  was  reading  you 
poetry!" 

He  smiled  at  her.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  in  the  mood 
for  verses,  mater?  What  are  you  up  to?  I  suppose 
you  have  a  point  in  mind  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,  I  am  sure,"  she  answered,  with 
dignity.  "I  try  to  have,  as  a  rule.  I  asked  you  if  you 
were  going  to  let  love  drive  you  from  your  palace 
— that's  your  birthright  as  my  son.  I  want  you  to 
live  in  your  palace,  and  to  build  your  share,  as  your 
forefathers  did  before  you "  Her  voice  fal- 
tered, but  she  laughed  away  the  tears.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  be  a  broken-down  old  ruin  with  ivy 
crawling  over  you,  and  toads  in  the  dark  corners. 
Remember,  you're  a  wing,  or  a  wall,  or  a  corner, 
in  a  great  building;  and  if  you  let  her  spoil  your 
life  .  .  ." 

"  By  the  Lord,  no! "  he  answered,  with  sudden  vigour. 
"Don't  worry,  mater.  We  shall  find  some  way  out 
presently." 

The  book  was  shaking  in  her  hand.  He  took  it 
gently  from  her,  and  wiped  away  her  tears  with  his 
own  handkerchief. 

Presently  she  dimpled  again.  "The  foolish  old 
woman!"  she  chirruped. 

"  Not  altogether;  you  have  your  good  points,  mater," 
he  encouraged  her.  "  Now  what's  next  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  made  the  full  application  of  the  text  even 
287 


Folly 

yet.  It  sticks  in  my  mind,  somehow,  that  you're  still 
hoping  to  make  it  up  ..." 

"Well?" 

"Don't.  It's  no  good.  Let  her  go.  Learn  to  live 
without  her." 

"By  Jove,"  said  he,  "that's  queer  advice!" 

"You'll  never  get  any  other  from  me,"  she  retorted. 
"And  you'll  never  get  her  back  any  other  way." 

"Wait,"  she  continued,  as  he  stared  at  her.  "Let 
that  old  Hindoo  tell  you  again : 

*  Harder  than  faces  in  a  glass  designed, 
A  woman's  heart  to  bind; 

Like  mountain-paths  up  cragged  heights  that  twist, 
Her  ways  are  lightly  missed.' 

Now  Folly  is  a  woman. " 

"And  so  are  you,"  he  said. 

"Unfortunately,"  she  responded.  "So  you  miss  my 
ways  too,  do  you?  Yet  a  mother's  course  ought  to  be 
plain-sailing  surely." 

"Not  perhaps  to  the  craft  that  she's  trying  to  steer. 
Tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it — if  I 
can." 

"But  when  it  conies  to  the  point  of  giving  up  Folly — 
there  you  draw  the  line — eh?" 

"Why  should  it  come  to  a  question  of  that?" — he 
looked  troubled. 

"Why — oh,  why!  You  great  clumsy  man-of-war, 
I'm  only  trying  to  manoeuvre  you  into  a  promising 
position  for  the  conflict!" 

288 

...1 


Folly 

"I  see,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'm  to  pretend  not  to  want 
her  .  .  ." 

"Hush!"  she  interrupted  him.  "Pretend  nothing. 
You  couldn't  do  it  if  you  tried.  No,  no,  never  mind  my 
riddles;  I'm  only  sporting  my  wits.  But  I've  another 
verse  for  you  somewhere.  Yes,  here : 

'Bear  not  the  burthen  of  a  world  outworn, 
Nor  to  the  future  bow; 
With  every  hour  thy  joy  be  newly  born, 
And  earth  be  new-created  every  morn, — 
Thy  life  is  here  and  now.' 

That's  the  way  you  used  to  live  when  you  had  her. 
Can't  you  keep  it  up  without  her?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Why  not?    Other  people  do.    I  did." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  continued:  "The  kind 
of  love  that  can't  do  without  the  beloved,  Andrew,  is, 
to  my  mind,  a  pretty  low  thing,  and  deserves  all  the 
contempt  it  ever  gets." 

"It's  the  natural  kind,"  he  commented. 

"Perhaps,  but  that  fact  doesn't  alter  my  descrip- 
tion, does  it?  I  should  think  a  Christie  might  rise 
above  it." 

"Well,  mater,  well,"  he  said  impatiently,  "and 
what's  the  good  of  it  all  ?  " 

She  answered  him  in  verse: 

'"Like  as  a  goldsmith  beateth  out  his  gold 

To  other  fashions  fairer  than  the  old, 

So  may  the  Spirit,  learning  ever  more, 

In  ever  nobler  forms  his  life  infold.'  " 
19  289 


Folly 

"I  never  thought  you  poetically  inclined,"  he 
scoffed ;  but  she  knew  that  he  was  touched. 

"Folly  and  I  have  been  reading  this  together,"  she 
answered.  "Here's  one  we  had  a  dispute  about: 

'Wayfarers  on  the  dusty  road 
By  shaded  wells  their  heavy  load 
Undoing  rest  awhile,  and  then 
Pass  on  restored. — What  cause  of  tears,  O  men?' 

She  wanted  to  know  who  imposed  the  heavy  loads  on 
the  wayfarers;  and  I  said  that  if  they  didn't  have  any- 
thing to  carry,  they  would  never  appreciate  'undoing' 
them  by  the  'shaded  wells.'" 

"And  she  said  there  were  no  'shaded  wells,'  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"No,  she  answered  me  with  another — this: 

'Rest  in  the  World's  still  heart;  thy  little  cares 
Like  wind-rocked  billows  roll, 
And  all  thy  pleasure  as  the  light  wind  fares; — 
Now  give  thee  peace,  my  soul!' 

And  she  said:  'If  only  I  could  find  the  path  there P 
You  must  be  patient  with  the  girl,  Andrew.  She  is 
honestly  doing  her  best,  I  believe." 

"That  reminds  me,  I'd  better  be  looking  her  up  and 
get  it  over.    I  want  to  go  back  to  town  to-night." 
"  No,  no,"  she  urged.    "  Be  reasonable." 
"Reasonable?" — he  laughed,  then  seeing    her  dis- 
tressed face,  added  quickly:  "After  all  this  philosophy, 
I  ought  to  be.    But  what  is  unreasonable  in  wishing  to 

get  an  unpleasant  thing  done  as  soon  as  possible?" 

290 


Folly 

"I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour,  boy;  I  want  you  to 
wait  until  morning — and  to  think  over  what  we  have 
said." 

"Well,  well,"  he  assented,  with  a  touch  of  irritation, 
ending  with:  "Lend  me  that  book,  will  you?" 

Then  she  smiled,  knowing  that  she  need  not  fear  for 
him;  and  when  she  was  alone,  chid  herself  sharply  that 
she  had  ever  feared. 


291 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

BY  THE  SEA. 

WHEN  Christie  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  morn- 
ing he  was  told  that  Folly  had  gone  out;  and  as  his 
mother  rarely  appeared  until  nearly  luncheon  time,  he 
was  rather  glad  of  the  respite,  and  strolled  away  for  a 
quiet  time  by  the  sea. 

He  followed  the  broad  avenue  of  elms  down  the  hill, 
and  came  out  by  the  rocks  at  the  end  of  the  Promenade; 
and  here  he  idled  until,  chancing  to  look  up,  he  saw  her 
— his  wife — slowly  climbing  a  lane  that  ended,  as  he 
knew,  in  a  path  cut  out  of  the  face  of  the  cliffs. 

With  a  heavy  heart,  he  felt  that  he  must  seize  the 
occasion,  and  followed  her  between  the  ivy-covered 
walls,  trying  over  in  his  mind  fifty  ways  of  introducing 
his  errand. 

He  did  not  come  up  with  her — perhaps  loitering  in- 
tentionally— until  she  was  near  the  end  of  the  path. 
Here  it  is  protected  only  by  a  low  crumbling  wall  that 
overhangs  the  sea  where  the  tide  dwells  in  a  perpetual 
surge  among  the  boulders. 

She  turned  at  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  showed  no 
292 


Folly 

surprise  upon  seeing  him;  it  was  almost  as  if  she  had 
expected  him. 

He  made  some  blundering  remark  about  the  bay. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "it  reminds  me  a  little — only  a 
very  little — of  Espinal.  I  come  here  often." 

Certainly  she  was  not  making  his  task  easier. 

She  followed  this  up  with  a  blunt:  "I  suppose  you 
had  some  special  reason  for  coming  down  to  see  me?" 

"You  suppose  correctly,"  he  answered,  looking  away 
from  her  across  the  sea. 

"And  you  don't  know  how  to  begin?"  Thus, 
after  a  time,  she  tried  to  help  him. 

"I  happened  to  see  Gregory  the  other  day " 

She  turned  paler,  but  waited  in  silence. 

"He  asked  me  to — in  short,  I  have  a  message — a 
letter — to  hand  over  to  you.  ..." 

She  sat  down  on  the  broken  wall,  resting  her  elbow 
on  the  stone  and  her  cheek  on  her  hand ;  so  watched  the 
tide  sucking  in  and  out  among  the  stones.  "I  know," 
she  said,  without  betraying  any  emotion.  "  He  is  dead." 

"But  how  could  you — ?  I  thought  I  had  stopped 
the " 

"Was  it  in  the  papers,  then?  I  didn't  know  that. 
When  did  it  happen?" 

He  told  her  a  few  details,  then  she  interrupted  him : 
"I  felt  when  it  happened — I  don't  know  how.  I  was 
here  by  the  sea." 

He  found  himself  wondering  sardonically  whether 
she  had  made  due  allowance  for  the  difference  in  time. 

293 


Folly 

"It  was  early,  scarcely  daybreak,  and  I  could  not 
sleep.  I  rose  as  if  I  had  been  called,  and  came  here, 
and  watched  the  red  dawn,  and  the  sun  come  up  out  of 
the  waves.  And  I  knew  he  would  never  see  that 
sun.  .  .  ." 

He  was  relieved  that  she  did  not  cast  before  him  the 
burden  of  her  grief ;  and  yet  her  stillness  alarmed  him, 
as  it  had  done  before  at  Espinal.  ...  It  might  be  that 
this  was  only  the  first  stupor  from  the  blow,  and  that 
when  she  awakened  .  .  . 

"The  letter?"  she  asked;  and  he  put  it  into  her 
hands. 

She  looked  down  upon  it  as  it  lay  in  her  lap — the 
envelope  bearing  the  printed  address  of  the  British 
Consulate  in  New  York.  She  turned  it  over.  It  was 
unsealed. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  give  it  to  me  unconditionally," 
she  said,  with  an  effort  at  gratitude. 

He  could  not  help  smiling.  "Why  should  I  make 
conditions?  It  is  plainly  yours.  Gregory  made  sure 
of  that." 

She  could  not  read  it  until  he  went  away,  and  he 
made  no  move;  indeed,  on  the  contrary,  he  seized  her 
arm  as  if  he  feared  that  she  might  grow  dizzy  and  lose 
her  balance. 

"It  is  Espinal  over  again,"  she  said  faintly,  hoping 
to  remind  him  to  leave  her. 

"Not  quite"— he  did  not  loosen  his  hold,  though  she 

would  have  liked  to  draw  away.     "I  must  take  you 

294 


Folly 

home  first.    I  was  a  fool  to  come  and  blurt  it  out  in  this 
place.    Steady — now." 

"  Oh,  I  am  steady  enough,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience.  "And  this  was  the  place.  It  had  to  hap- 
pen here.  But  please  go  away." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  It  won't  do.  There  have  been 
fools — and  women  among  them " 

"You  may  trust  me,"  she  said. 

But  he  was  not  satisfied.  "How  do  I  know  that  you 
are  not  past  keeping  faith?" 

"You  cannot — but  you  might  trust  me.  You  trusted 
me  at  Espinal — when  it  was  worse." 

He  leaned  against  the  face  of  the  rock,  immovable. 
"Was  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  had  that  question  all  out  at  Biarritz,"  she  pleaded, 
"when  I  could  not  decide  among  the  difficult  ways. 
Now  there's  no  choosing — there's  only  the  one." 

This  sounded  perilous  and  he  moved  nearer. 

"  No,  don't  trouble.  If  I  had  intended  to  end  my  life 
in  such  a  mess,  do  you  think  I  should  have  waited  till 
now?" 

He  felt  that  there  was  sense  in  this ;  still  he  objected : 
"There  was  always  hope;  you  were  not  sure  ..." 

"Sure  enough,"  said  she. 

"I  will  trust  you,"  he  said,  upon  a  sudden  impulse. 
"I  will  wait  for  you  in  the  lane." 

«No " 

"You  may  need  help  home '" 

"I  shall  not  need  help." 

295 


Folly 

"Your  help,"  he  interpreted  this  to  mean;  and 
walked  a  few  steps  away. 

But  he  came  back:  "If  you  fail  me  now,  you  shatter 
a  life-time  of  faith  ..." 

"A  life- time?"  she  repeated  softly.  "A  life-time? 
— faith  that  when  you  see  what  is  right,  you  do  it — 
at  any  cost." 

It  was  a  strange  thing  for  him  to  say,  reflecting  as  it 
did  upon  his  own  hurt;  but  she  remembered  that  he 
was  his  mother's  son. 

"If  you  believe  that,"  she  answered,  "you  know  that 
you  may  trust  me  now." 

"Do  you  see  the  right?"  he  asked  keenly. 

"If  not,  at  least — at  least,  I  see  the  wrong." 

He  turned  away  a  second  time;  but  before  she  had 
come  into  a  full  sense  of  her  aloneness,  she  heard  his 
voice  again: 

"You  can't  expect  it,  Folly.  Not  one  man  in  a  hun- 
dred would  do  it.  Come  back  home  with  me,  and  I 
will  leave  you  in  peace." 

At  this,  she  turned  upon  him  in  a  sort  of  dull  anger: 
"I  thought  you  might  be  the  one  man.  I  have  trusted 
your  generosity  so  often;  and  it  has  never  failed  me.  I 
give  you  my  word  that  I  will  come  home — presently. 
If  you  don't  go  now,  I  shall  think  you  are  afraid  of  the 
possible  disgrace  to  your  name,  your  family.  .  .  . 
Need  I  say  anything  more  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  said  enough,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"I  will  leave  you  to  your  letter." 

296 


Folly 

She  gazed  after  him,  her  eyes  wet  with  sudden  com- 
punction, and  softly  spoke  his  name. 

He  looked  back,  but  made  no  move  to  return. 

"  Say  that  you  do  trust  me." 

He  looked  at  her  hard  and  she  met  his  eyes  without 
flinching. 

"I  trust  you  then,"  he  said.  And  at  last  she  was 
alone. 

She  watched  him  going  until  he  had  turned  the  bend 
in  the  path;  and  then  she  looked  down  at  her  letter, 
fearing  to  touch  it.  But  when  a  sudden  puff  of  wind 
lifted  a  corner  of  the  envelope,  she  caught  it  up  and 
held  it  to  her  heart,  lest  it  blow  away  into  the  sea — 
unread. 

But  she  would  not  open  it  yet  a  while;  she  tried  first 
to  realize  that  he  who  had  written  the  words  was  abso- 
lutely vanished  from  the  face  of  this  earth. 

"Dead — dead — dead" — she  repeated  the  word  to 
herself,  she  knew  not  how  many  times;  but  it  bore  no 
meaning  whatever. 

She  watched  the  home-going  of  the  tawny  fishing- 
fleet.  There  were  days  when  one  trawler  came  back 
short-handed,  when  another  failed  to  come  at  all;  and 
there  were  other  days  when  the  sand  and  the  rocks 
were  sown  with  the  dead.  But  what  did  it  mean? 
Emptiness  in  the  home — in  the  heart?  But  this  came 
other  ways  than  by  death.  Only,  while  the  breath- 
flame  was  burning  in  the  beloved,  there  was  always  the 

chance — ah    the  pitiful  clinging  to  chance.  .  .  .  For 

297 


Folly 

her,  there  had  long  been  no  hope.  They  were  parted 
before  he  left  Espinal,  before  he  went  to  Espinal — 
parted  by  the  clutch  of  death  upon  him  before  ever  she 
left  her  husband  for  his  sake.  And  now  what  differ- 
ence could  it  make  that  she  would  surely  never  see  his 
face  again,  as  she  had  known  it,  or  touch  his  hand,  or 
hear  his  voice — what  difference  in  the  world  ?  .  .  . 

And  what  of  him,  then,  to  whom  the  change  had 
come?  To  her  it  was  inconceivable,  this  change,  ex- 
cept as  a  negation,  a  contradiction  of  all  that  he  had 
known  and  done  and  been.  It  was  a  falling  to  pieces 
of  the  forces  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul — to  her,  at 

least,  silence But  at  the  last  he  had  spoken, 

had  sent  her  a  message — some  comfort,  perhaps — a 
hope  .  .  . 

So,  with  steady  fingers,  she  opened  her  letter  at 
length.  Calm  and  dry-eyed,  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  heedless  of  the  glare  of  the  sun  above  and 
sea  below,  she  read  the  last  thing  that  his  soul  could 
ever  say  to  hers. 


298 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  LETTER. 

"AT  SEA,  May. 
"DEAREST  AND  BEST-BELOVED: 

"Has  peace  come  to  you  yet,  or  the  hope  of  peace? 
Should  you  be  glad  to  know  that  pain  has  almost  done 
with  me — perhaps  quite,  when  this  reaches  you?  If 
I  could  give  you  peace!  It  is  coming  to  me  as  surely 
— with  every  breath  of  the  sea- wind;  the  sense  of  it  is 
as  strong  within  me  as  is  the  sense  of  spring  when  the 
earth  is  fresh-turned — you  know  ? 

"You  think  I  parted  easily  from  you?  Not  after  the 
letter  I  left  for  you  at  Espinal — you  could  not  think  so. 
We  passed  through  the  worst  of  the  bad  time  then,  my 
poor  girl.  Why,  every  nerve  of  me  was  crying  out  to 
go  back,  all  that  interminable  night  that  I  sat  in  the 
train,  and  all  the  next  day  as  we  crashed  through  the 
desert  to  the  south.  And  when  I  came  to  board  the 
steamer  at  Gibraltar,  I  had  to  fight  against  the  longing 
to  return  as  the  child  of  sinners  fights  for  his  virtue. 
And  you?  We  must  not  remember  that  time;  forget  it 
with  me.  But  I  had  to  tell  you  that  it  was.  Once  be- 
fore I  was  weak,  and  you  suffered  for  it,  my  dear;  but 

299 


Folly 

I  believe  the  last  of  my  manhood  would  have  died 
within  me,  if  I  had  not  held  out  this  time.  Did  you 
think  me  a  coward  ?  I  wanted  to  spare  you  the  harder 
part,  as  I  said  before;  and  they  that  seem  to  play  the 
coward  are  not  always  cowards  at  heart.  I  am  not 
trying  to  excuse  myself — and  yet,  I  believe  I  am.  I 
want  you  to  know  that  I  could  not  let  you  be  tor- 
tured by  what  I  had  to  bear.  Folly,  Folly,  you  under- 
stand?" 

The  woman  stopped  her  reading,  and  looked  out  to 
sea.  "You  were  wrong.  It  might  have  been  some 
comfort  now  to  have  shared  it  to  the  end.  But  what 
do  I  know— O  God!" 

She  read  on: 

"I  struck  you  hard  that  the  pain  might  be  shorter  as 
it  was  sharper.  And  so  I  forsook  you  deliberately  at 
Espinal;  and  there  may  be  bitterness  in  your  heart 
against  me  for  the  only  way  I  could  find  to  do  it — " 

"No  bitterness — no,"  she  whispered. 

" — but,  my  dear,  my  dear,  Espinal  was  in  truth  a 
city  of  thorns  for  you  and  me;  you  must  look  forward 
to  a  day  when  you  will  forget  that." 

"How?  How?"  was  her  prayer. 

"When  I  came  to  Gibraltar,  it  seemed  as  if  the  fates 
intended  to  turn  me  back.  The  steamer  was  crowded 
with  homeward-bound  travellers  from  the  Mediterra- 
nean; and  I  dared  not  trust  my  will  to  wait  until  the 
next.  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  America?  I  don't 

know  what  put  it  into  my  head -" 

300 


Folly 

"The  story  of  the  woman  across  the  way,"  said  her 
heart. 

" — but  I  had  always  longed  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
New  World.  I  know  now  that  it  can  be  no  more 
than  that.  Somehow,  it  seemed  the  thing  to  do.  So 
when  I  found  there  was  no  room  first  class  or  second,  I 
went  in  the  steerage — where  there  is  always  room.  And 
as  soon  as  it  was  done,  I  knew  again  that  this  was  the 
right  thing;  and  so  it  has  proved.  It  was  just  a  year 
ago,  I  think,  when  I  went  away  from  you  the  second 
time,  that  I  travelled  up  to  London  with  a  crowd  of  the 
poor,  and  found  no  brotherhood  in  them.  I  have 
learned  better  now,  alone  with  them — although  these 
were  Spanish  folk — with  the  peace  and  the  leisure  of 
the  sea  all  about  us. 

"I  had  my  portfolio  with  me.  I  don't  know  exactly 
how  it  escaped  burning;  and  sitting  on  the  lower  deck, 
among  my  poor  neighbours,  I  read  it  over  and  smiled 
to  see  how  little  it  takes  to  make  what  the  world  calls  a 
poet.  I  crumpled  the  things,  one  by  one,  and  sent 
them  overboard — a  new  kind  of  sea-gull  in  the  wake  of 
the  ship:  ' Jaizquibel,'  the  'Lays  of  Picardy,'  the 
'Watch-Tower,'  the 'Loom,'  the  'City  of  Thorns'— 
why  should  I  trouble  you  with  their  names  ?  You  will 
remember  to  destroy  all  that  you  have  when  you  are 
done  with  them?  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  world. 

"  Some  few  I  clung  to  longer  than  the  others  for  the 
memories  that  they  brought  up.  The  'Heather  Bal- 
lad' took  me  back  to  a  Yorkshire  fell  and  a  small  boy 

301 


Folly 

who  thought  that  heaven  lay  on  its  top.  The  'An- 
gelus'  verses  gave  me  again  ourselves  in  the  valley  of 
the  Itsu,  and  the  sound  of  bells  from  an  unseen  village 
over  the  mountain — you  remember  ? 

'  Thy  twinkling  lights  not  shown  to  us, 
Thy  throbbing  hearts  not  known  to  us, 
Thy  bells  alone  wind-blown  to  us, 
Ye  quiet  folk  that  do  God's  will, 

Over  the  distant  hill.' 

And  the  answer — why,  you  wrote  most  of  the  answer — 
remember? 

'All's  well  with  fields  not  sown  by  you, 
With  springing  crops  not  grown  by  you, 
With  beating  hearts  not  known  by  you, 
With  quiet  folk  that  do  God's  will, 

Over  the  distant  hill.' 

But  you  have  the  whole,  so  I  sent  my  copy  over- 
board with  the  others. 

"And  when  I  had  finished  with  it  all,  I  had  nothing 
in  the  world  to  do  but  write  a  line  to  this  friend  and 
that,  as  I  could;  and  this  for  you.  It  was  good  to  lie 
on  the  sunny  deck,  with  cloudless  blue  above  and  wave- 
less  blue  below,  and  to  let  a  little  kiddie  pull  my  hair 
while  its  mother  told  me  about  her  home  among  the 
Sierras,  and  her  fear  of  the  untried  sea;  or  to  smoke 
and  tell  tales  with  Basque  fishermen  f  rom  Fuenterrab fa 
or  Santander,  who  looked  one  day  to  see  the  salmon  of 
the  Oregon;  or  to  weigh  with  vine-dressers  from  Mal- 
aga or  Jerez  their  chances  of  making  a  fortune  in  the 

streets  of  New  York;   or  to  build  air-castles  with  a 

302 


Folly 

ruined  farmer  from  the  bad  lands  of  Aragon  and  to  set 
them  up  in  the  wheatfields  of  Dakota.  There  were  two 
hundred  of  them  altogether;  and  I  came  to  know  most 
of  them  a  little  and  some  of  them  well — these  unlucky, 
go-lucky  children.  And  it  opened  my  blind  eyes,  made 
me  see  more  than  I  can  ever  tell  you — just  to  live  with 
them  this  little  fortnight. 

"One  thing  that  came  to  me  strangely  was,  I 
heard  our  own  story  told  so  many  times  over — with 
differences,  but  yet  the  same — among  these  poor  peas- 
ants. We  found  it  so  tragic,  so  all-absorbing,  and  did 
not  dream  perhaps — or  did  you? — that  it's  a  common 
thing  in  the  world.  And  what  it  stands  for — that  comes 
in  the  working  out,  whether  it  turns  to  torment  or  to 
joy;  and  I  tell  you,  yours  shall  be  joy." 

The  cruelty  of  the  dead  to  the  living! ....  It  was  a 
long  while  before  she  could  read  on. 

"These  people  suffer  no  less  pain  than  we — or  very 
little;  they  keep  more  joy,  I  think,  and  perhaps  in  that 
way  ease  their  lot.  Some  of  them  have  worse  things  to 
bear:  the  crumbling  away  of  character  in  a  test,  the 
discovery  that  an  affection  is  built  upon  deceit,  that  the 
loved  one  has  always  been  a  stranger  in  soul.  I  can- 
not write  you  more  now. 

"LATER— I  do  not  know  the  date. 
"We  have  left  the  purple  sea,  and  the  broad  path  of 
the  moon  across  the  waves,  and  the  fantastic  floating 
life  of  the  south;  and  we  have  come  into  the  cold  gray 

303 


Folly 

waters  of  the  north,  and  the  old  moon  will  die  in  a  night 
or  two.    I  have  been  thinking,  Folly — thinking  of  you 
and  your  life;   and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
which — another  time." 
"He  was  worse  that  day,"  said  her  heart. 

"SATURDAY. 

"I  heard  some  one  just  now  tell  the  day  of  the  week. 
We  have  passed  what  they  call  Sandy  Hook,  and  a 
long  island  with  many  lights — I  forget  its  name;  and 
we  lie  at  anchor  in  a  marvellous  harbour,  waiting  for 
morning  and  the  quarantine  officers.  I  must  try  to 
write  you  to-night  what  I  have  to  say,  for  to-morrow 
there  will  be  much  to  do.  It  will  be  hard  to  say  good- 
bye to  the  gentle  voices  and  kind  hands  and  loving 
hearts  that  I  have  learned  to  know  on  this  voyage ;  but 
it  will  be  the  last  farewell,  I  think.  To-morrow  a 
glimpse  of  the  New  World,  and  then.  ...  I  have  been 
straining  my  eyes  for  the  shadowy  outlines  of  this  world 
of  giants;  but  can  make  out  little  besides  the  Liberty 
who  flaunts  her  torch  and  crown  of  stars  across  the 
bay,  and  the  long  curves  of  a  glittering  bridge. 

"Look  now,  how  I  have  postponed  saying  to  you 
what  I  must  say.  It  is  not  easy  to  tell.  I  have  waited 
until  I  should  be  able  to  put  it  so  strongly  that  you  will 
feel  as  I  do;  I  will  not  wait  until  to-morrow  I  think, 
as  I  intended  a  moment  ago. 

"The  great  thing  is — how  get  it  into  words? — the 
little  thing.  The  secret  of  joy,  as  it  seems  to  me  now, 

304 


Folly 

is  the  immolation  of  selfishness  and  the  unfolding,  the 
expansion,  the — I  cannot  say  it  clearly — flowering  of 
one  life  in  the  lives  of  many.  Not  one  other  life,  or  two 
or  three — but  the  most — the  utmost  extension  of  self 
in  the  lives  of  others.  We  had  the  cup  of  joy  at  our 
lips,  we  thought,  you  and  I,  and  it  was  snatched  away; 
but,  by  God,  I  see  now  that  it  was  dashed  at  our 
feet  that  we  might  not  drink  the  poison!  Oh,  I  am 
writing  in  figures — I  do  not  know  how  I  am  writing 
— I  cannot  find  the  words — but  I  can  see  this  frag- 
ment of  eternal  truth.  The  scales  have  fallen  from 
piy  eyes.  ..." 

A  blot.    Here  the  pen  had  dropped  from  his  fingers. 

But  lower  down  on  the  page  was  a  scrawl,  where  he 
struggled  on  with  his  message:  "By  my  love  for  you 
which  is  now — and  now — and  now — you  must  do  as  I 
say  and  be  happy.  You  must  leave  the  great  high- 
roads where  men  crowd  and  struggle  and  push  on,  and 
walk  in  the  little  path — the  by-path — I  mean — the 
footpath  of  serv " 

That  was  all.  The  heart  might  break  in  vain  to 
know  more  of  the  thought  thus  stifled  by  the  swift 
silence. 

There  was  also  a  typewritten  sheet  in  the  envelope — 
the  consul's  explanation,  useless  details,  forms,  cere- 
monies. .  .  .  She  turned  away  from  them  and  tried 
to  think  what  he  had  thought  dying  thus  between  the 
open  sea  and  the  New  World.  Had  he  at  the  last 
turned  back  to  the  Old  and  remembered  her,  wait- 

305 


Folly 

ing  and  listening  in  the  dawn  that  he  was  never  to 
see?  .... 

She  leaned  against  the  unsheltering  rock  until  she 
grew  dizzy  in  the  glare  of  the  sun.  And  if  she  fell,  she 
would  seem  to  have  broken  her  promise,  she  remem- 
bered; it  was  time  to  go  home.  There  was  no  need  for 
consideration;  he  had  pointed  the  way  for  her,  unmis- 
takably. She  must  return  among  people  and  live  her 
life  out;  while  he,  whose  work  was  done,  was  at  peace. 
And  the  way  of  service  ?  The  beginning  of  duty  ?  The 
questions  needed  neither  asking  nor  answering;  she 
knew  whither  she  must  turn. 

She  rose,  with  shaking  knees,  and  one  hand  laid 
along  the  rock  to  steady  her  on  her  homeward  way,  the 
other  clinging  to  the  letter. 

But  before  she  left  the  place,  a  strange  new  feeling 
swept  over  her  overpoweringly,  that  the  letter  had 
brought  its  message  and  was  hers  no  longer.  She  had 
no  right  to  brood  over  it,  to  grieve  over  it;  no  tune  to 
dwell  upon  it  with  hopeless  longing.  It  must  go,  and 
lead  the  way  for  those  others  that  she  had  at  home — 
ah,  but  not  yet,  not  yet! 

The  voice  within  her  was  insistent:  "Now,  at  once, 
before  you  weaken." 

She  knew  that  she  had  to  obey,  and  she  could  not. 
The  impulse  was  swift,  strong- winged ;  but  the  rebel- 
lious heart  dragged  it  to  earth. 

Two  gulls  flew  out  from  under  the  cliff — white  against 
the  sea-blue. 

306 


Folly 

"If  they  alight  on  that  boulder,  I  will  not,"  cried 
instinct,  seeking  escape.  And  scarcely  was  the  thought 
voiced,  before  she  was  able  to  clasp  her  treasure  close, 
whispering,  "Mine,  mine." 

But  the  voice  within  her  was  lifted  up  in  sternness, 
and  forbade  her  trifling  with  the  powers  of  the  soul. 
For  herself  she  must  decide  whether  she  would  obey 
or  not. 

"Not  mine."  Her  hands  faltered  and  shook,  and 
sometimes  paused  altogether;  but  in  the  end  she  had 
torn  her  written  message  into  hundreds  of  shreds,  and 
had  sent  them  fluttering  down  like  a  shower  of  snow- 
flakes  until  they  melted  into  the  sea. 


307 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"O  FOLLY,   FOLLY  1" 

CHRISTIE  walked  home  but  slowly,  turning  every  few 
rods  in  the  vain  hope  that  she  might  be  following.  And 
when  he  reached  the  house,  he  still  lingered  some  time 
among  the  myrtles,  thus  by  a  few  moments  to  anticipate 
her  coming.  By  mid-day  he  began  to  grow  anxious; 
but  still  clinging  to  his  trust  in  her,  he  went  into  the 
smoking-room  and  tried  to  turn  his  mind  to  indifferent 
matters. 

Plans  he  made  none,  for  the  present  situation  he 
regarded  as  beyond  his  handling,  unless  fortune  or 
chance  gave  him  some  clue.  But  he  was  tormented  by 
elusive  memories  of  the  past:  his  clumsy  wooing;  the 
early  days  of  their  engagement,  when  she  had  teased 
him  into  love-making  and  laughed  him  out  of  it;  the 
foolish  ecstasy  of  their  honeymoon;  the  pricks  and 
stings  of  her  growing  discontent ;  the  dangerous  friend- 
ship; the  quiet  days  after  their  son  was  born,  and  the 
sudden  disaster.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  no  profit  in  such  memories.  He  de- 
liberately gave  his  attention  to  a  new  drainage  system 

for  a  piece  of  bog-land  on  his  estate;  and  was  surprised 

308 


Polly 

that  the  tobacco  he  was  smoking  should  be  so  bitter. 
After  a  time,  he  amazed  himself  by  flinging  down 
papers  and  pipe  with  a  sudden  curse,  crying  out  upon 
himself  for  a  fool  in  leaving  her  to  herself.  For  how 
did  he  know  what  was  in  the  letter  he  had  been  another 
sort  of  fool  to  bring  down  to  her?  And  what  was  a 
mere  promise  to  a  desperate  woman?  He  struggled 
against  premonitions  of  evil,  reasoned  out  carefully  that 
even  if  the  worst  happened  he  must  be  the  sufferer,  not 
she;  and  therefore  philosophy  was  always  within  his 
reach.  He  reminded  himself  that  he  had  never  known 
her  to  break  her  word;  and  the  end  of  his  thinking  was 
that  the  leash  he  was  endeavouring  to  keep  upon  him- 
self gave  way  altogether. 

He  caught  up  his  hat  and  started  from  the  room ;  but 
as  suddenly  he  retreated  and  softly  closed  the  door 
again,  brushing  the  sweat-drops  of  relief  from  his  fore- 
head. He  had  seen  her,  black  against  the  sunshiny 
garden,  at  the  far  end  of  the  dim  hall. 

He  waited  and  listened  for  the  tap  of  her  slow  foot- 
steps on  the  wood  floor;  she  must  pass  by,  on  her  way 
upstairs.  But  the  sound  came  to  an  end  just  outside 
the  room,  and  was  followed  by  a  long  silence. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  stared  out  among  the 
rhododendrons,  returned  to  the  table  and  was  fum- 
bling restlessly  among  the  papers  of  his  land  improve- 
ment scheme,  when  at  last  she  knocked. 

"I  have  come  back,  you  see,"  she  said,  as  he  opened 
the  door. 

309 


Folly 

He  answered  nothing,  but  with  a  gesture  invited  her 
within. 

Unfastening  her  hat  as  she  moved,  she  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  brushed  back  the  hair  from  her  temples, 
with  an  expression  of  relief.  She  was  pale,  but  quite 
calm,  as  she  said:  "And  I  am  ready  to  go  back  with 
you  to  Sunlands  when  you  please." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  they  both  heard 
voices  in  the  hall,  some  visitor's,  not  distinguishable, 
and  his  mother's,  saying  clearly:  "Well,  my  dear,  I 
can  only  say  that  you're  demanding  the  universe,  if  you 
expect  to  be  happy  all  the  time.  Nothing  short  of  that 
would  do  it." 

The  answer  was  lost  in  Christie's  abrupt:  "What  do 
you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  try  to  do  my  obvious  duty 
— and  that  is  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he;  and  she  fully  expected  him 
to  add:  "Don't  you  think  it's  rather  late?"  But  he 
did  not. 

"You  said  long  ago — I  mean  last  month,  hi 
Espinal — that  you  would  take  me  back,"  she  con- 
tinued, wondering  at  his  silence,  and  not  perceiving 
that  it  was  the  leaven  of  some  new  thought  working 
in  him. 

"True,"  he  said,  after  a  time.  "But  circumstances 
have  altered  since  then." 

"Have  altered?" 

He  shrugged,    "Need  I  explain?" 
310 


Polly 

"I  don't  understand,  unless  you  mean  that  you 

won't  take  me  back. " 

"I  do  mean  that." 

"That  you  won't?" 

"I  think  not." 

"But  why?" 

He  smiled  faintly  and  left  her  to  seek  her  own  answer. 

"You  mean,  because  people  may  have  been  talk- 
ing?" she  asked,  with  a  flush. 

"I  think  that  needs  no  reply.  But  I  am  not  aware 
that  there  has  been  gossip.  If  so,  the  best  way" — he 
did  not  deem  the  conclusion  worth  pursuing. 

"What  then  is  your  reason?" 

"Will  you  be  quite  frank  with  me?"  he  asked  in  turn. 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  want  to  come  ?  " 

She  considered  carefully  before  she  gave  her  reply: 
"There  can  be  no  question  of  'wanting';  it  is  my 
duty." 

He  laughed.  "I  knew,  of  course.  Sacrifice  is  more 
easily  made  than  accepted,  Florence." 

"But  if  I'm  willing  .  .  .?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"More  than  willing  .  .  .?" 

He  was  obstinately  silent. 

"  It  is  my  place  ..." 

"Is  it?"  He  turned  upon  her  keenly.  "Do  you 
still  claim  the  right  to  it?" 

"I  have  no  claim" — she  began  humbly ;  then,  struck 


Folly 

with  sudden  terror,  asked:    "Would  you  try  to  di- 
vorce me  now?" 

"I  thought  we  had  that  out  in  Espinal.  I'm  sorry 
you  think  so  badly  of  me,"  he  said  coldly.  "If  things 
were  at  a  much  worse  pass  than  they  are,  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  turn  to  the  courts  for  help." 

"You  might  get  a  separation-order" — she  spoke 
now  with  a  coldness  equal  to  his. 

"What  good  would  that  do?  We  couldn't  be  any 
more  parted  than  we  are." 

"So  what  it  all  comes  to  is ?" 

"You  must  go  your  own  way" — his  harsh  tone  did 
not  relent. 

And  while  she  was  considering  this  new  point  of 
view,  he  continued,  with  the  air  of  one  who  means  to 
look'at  a  question  from  all  sides :  "As  for  the  name  ..." 

"Oh,  what  does  that  matter?"  she  cried,  with  a 
touch  of  impatience. 

"Pardon  me,  it's  my  name.    It  does  matter  to  me." 

"I  know,"  she  breathed,  with  quick  remorse.  "And 
I've  done  my  best  to  drag  it  in  the  mud." 

"Your  worst,  you  mean,"  she  read  on  his  grim  lips; 
but  he  said  nothing. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  myself  or  of  my  position," 
she  tried  to  defend  herself.  "But  I  could  still  make  a 
home  for  you  and  do  what  lies  in  my  power  ..." 

He  had  no  scruple  in  cutting  her  short:  "It's  very 
good  of  you,  but  quite  out  of  the  question.  We'd 
better  come  down  to  details  of  arrangement." 

312 


Folly 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  Her  cry  was  almost  invol- 
untary; and  she  did  not  in  the  least  realize  that  she 
was  trying  to  throw  her  burden  on  him. 

He  seemed  implacable.  "That  you  must  decide  for 
yourself.  You  are  free  and  you  have  the  world  before 
you." 

"And  Providence  my  guide?"  she  asked,  with  sud- 
den bitterness.  "You  do  well  to  remind  me  of  my  lost 
Paradise." 

Then  first  he  was  aware  of  the  unconscious  bru- 
tality of  his  words;  but  his  tone  seemed  to  her  still 
amazingly  blunt  and  savage,  as  he  said  only:  "I 
mean  it.  Do?  There's  a  whole  world  full  of  things 
for  you  to  do!" 

There  was  something  else  working  in  him  that  had 
to  come  out :  "  You  think,  you  women,  that  the  love  of 
a  man  is  the  only  thing  worth  having  in  God's  uni- 
verse!" 

She  could  not  have  known  that  in  attacking  her,  he 
was  fighting  a  weakness  of  his  own. 

"I  am  learning  fast,"  she  said,  "but,  as  you  say,  it  is 
harder  for  women.  ..." 

"We  all  enter  Fools'  Paradise  at  some  time  or  other; 
but  most  of  us  don't  stay  long.  And  when  we  come  out, 
we  still  find  the  solid  crust  of  the  earth  to  set  our  teeth 
in.  And  a  pitiful  lot  we  should  be  if  we  didn't  have  to 
knock  and  batter  ourselves  against  a  few  hard  facts." 

By  this  time,  perhaps,  she  saw  a  little  that  he  was 
talking  for  himself  as  well  as  for  her. 

313 


Folly 

"Look  how  it  is,  Andrew,"  she  pleaded.  "I  tried  to 
get  out  of  my  old  self  when  the  baby  came;  but  after 
all,  I  loved  him  because  he  was  mine.  It  was  only  a 
deeper  form  of  self-love.  And  in  this  last — matter, 
although  you  cannot  know  what  I  would  have  given  or 
done  to  have  saved  his  life,  it  was  for  myself  I  wanted  it. 
There  is  no  escape,  it  seems,  from  the  self  that  is  the 
source  of  all  misery  and  sin.  ...  I  thought  there  was 
none;  but  he  gave  me  light  .  .  .  that  it  must  be  done 
by  the  way  of  serving  many — all.  ..." 

He  stared  at  her  in  frank  wonder.  Was  this  the  Folly 
who  had  once  challenged  the  world  to  dare  say  she  was 
not  beautiful,  who  had  trampled  on  all  the  rights  of 
those  that  loved  her  and  insisted  that  they  love  her 
still  ?  .  .  .  What  was  she  saying  now  ? 

"And  so  the  first  and  most  obvious  way  seemed  to  be 
my  duty  to  you;  but  if  you  cast  me  off,  I  must  find  an- 
other, I  suppose." 

He  foresaw  many  dangers,  and  said  quietly:  "One 
need  not  be  in  too  much  haste  about  doing.  One 
might  look  on  and  learn  for  a  few  years,  I  fancy,  and 
take  it  all  in — or  as  much  as  one  could." 

"And  forget  one's  self,"  she  concluded,  wondering 
how  Andrew  had  reached  the  same  conclusion  that 
Haldane  had  found  by  desperate  experience,  that  life 
must  be  lost  to  be  saved.  No,  not  lost — that  was  only 
half  the  truth.  It  must  lose  its  independence,  nothing 
more — must  be  grafted  into  the  life  of  the  whole.  Did 
many  people — did  all  people,  perhaps — come  to  the 


Folly 

same  knowledge  in  the  end  by  different  paths  of  ex- 
perience ? 

"Andrew,"  she  said,  holding  out  both  hands  to  him, 
"if  you  could  forgive  me  ..." 

He  did  not  respond  to  her  gesture  or  words,  further 
than  by  an  impatient  shake  of  the  head,  which  seemed 
to  mean  that  his  only  desire  was  to  be  rid  of  the  subject 
forever. 

"I  can  never  make  it  good" — she  came  a  little 
nearer. 

"Can  anybody  ever  make  anything  good?"  he  an- 
swered, and  allowed  himself  to  take  her  pleading 
hands.  "To  be  practical  now,  what  do  you  propose  to 
do?  Stay  on  here?" 

"No,  I  am  going  up  to  "London.  It  will  be  better — 
at  least,  easier — there  to  watch  and  work  and  perhaps 
grow  wise." 

"My  poor  girl" — he  drew  her  head  down  to  his 
shoulder  and  held  it  there;  but  did  not  kiss  or  attempt 
further  caress — "you  have  been  through  the  fire." 

"And  you,  and  you,"  she  whispered  quickly.  "I 
can  see  now  where  I  was  blind  before.  And  there  will 
always  be  one  bond  between  us,  if  nothing  else  ..." 

"If  nothing  else,"  he  assented.  "But  you  will  not 
shut  me  out,  if  you  want  help  at  any  time?" 

"You  have  said  that  so  many  times  before,"  she 
said,  seemingly  content,  to  his  surprise,  that  her  head 
should  lie  against  his  shoulder.  "I  will  remember. 
But  oh,  if  I  had  only  been  somebody  else  .  .  .  some- 

315 


Folly 

body  wise — not  Folly — Folly.  Good-bye.  I  shall  see 
you  now  and  then,  of  course.  Perhaps  some  day  you'll 
tell  me  that  you  can  forgive  me." 

She  snatched  up  her  hat  and  was  gone  before  he 
could  say  more;  and  upon  second  thoughts,  he  decided 
that  they  should  part  thus. 

"Is  the  mater  right,  I  wonder?"  he  asked  himself. 
"If  I  took  her  back  now,  would  it  be  the  same  old  life? 
But  what  in  the  name  of  heaven  could  work  the  wonder 
so  that  she  should  ever  be  different?" 

He  hid  his  face  with  a  sudden  groan:  "O  Folly! 
Folly!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

BEWILDERMENT. 

THE  Gregory- Patrick  wedding  came  as  a  great 
surprise,  because  it  was  over  before  most  people 
realized  that  an  engagement  was  imminent. 

"You  see,"  exclaimed  the  bride,  when  people  came 
to  call  at  the  barn-like  house  in  Queen  Anne  Street, 
already  beginning  to  assume  an  air  of  comfort,  if  not 
of  frivolity,  "the  doctor  was  too  busy  and  I  was  too 
old,  besides  having  foolish  scruples  as  a  widow.  So  we 
gathered  up  our  courage  one  day,  and  got  it  over  with- 
out any  fuss;  and  went  to  Paris  for  a  fortnight.  Oh, 
no,  it's  not  romantic;  but  I've  been  buying  some  old 
Japanese  prints  to-day.  Come  and  tell  me  whether 
I've  been  badly  done. " 

There  was  a  little  gossip,  of  course, — far  more,  how- 
ever, than  about  the  mysterious  flight  of  Mrs.  Christie 
to  Spain,  and  the  extraordinary  death  of  the  poet  Gore, 
which  were  not  by  most  people  connected;  but  the 
world  soon  settled  down  to  its  usual  chit-chat,  and 
Mabel  was  left  to  her  house-furnishing  in  peace. 

On  a  day  towards  the  end  of  July,  she  looked  up 
from  her  book  with  a  cry  of  delight  as  Folly  came  in. 


Folly 

"My  letter  is  scarcely  posted,"  said  she,  "demand- 
ing your  attendance  upon  my  new  dignity.  It  was 
good  of  me  to  write,  too,  when  you  haven't  answered 
the  other  in  which  I  told  you  of  our  elopement." 

"I  was  glad  for  you — you  must  have  known,"  said 
Folly,  "but  you  didn't  say  when  you  would  come  back, 
and  I  supposed  .  .  .  Then,  too,  I  have  been  alone  for 
several  weeks  by  the  sea.  ..." 

"I  know" — Mabel  folded  her  close.    "Poor  dear!" 

But  Folly  pushed  her  aside  with  a  slight  laugh: 
"So  now  you're  settled  for  fifty  years.  How  you  will 
transform  that  man!  Your  house  begins  to  look 
charming  already." 

Mabel  was  relieved  to  find  that  Folly  could  allude 
to  Gregory  without  embarrassment;  but  she  wondered 
whether  she  would  ever  be  able  to  bring  them  together. 

"Is  Andrew  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"No,  he's  at  Sunlands — at  least,  well,  he  intended  to 
go  abroad  at  the  end  of  the  month;  I  don't  know 
whether  he  has  actually  gone." 

"And  how  is  materkin?" 

"Blooming,  of  course;  but  she  pretended  to  shed  a 
tear  when  I  came  away." 

"And  are  you  in  Sloane  Street?" 

"Not  I.  It  wasn't  worth  while  to  take  the  covers  off 
the  chairs.  I  told  Andrew  he'd  better  let  the  place  on 
a  seven  years'  lease,  if  he  could." 

"Seven!"  repeated  Mabel  aghast. 

"  Yes.   We've  no  earthly  use  for  it." 


Folly 

"And  Sunlands?"  asked  Mabel,  trying  to  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns. 

"Oh,  he  would  never  let  that  go,"  answered  Folly 
lightly.  "He'd  let  moth  and  rust  corrupt  it  first;  but 
I  don't  think  they're  likely  to  get  in,  or  thieves  either, 
under  Mrs.  Brent's  rule.  You  have  got  '  Monna  Lisa,' 
I  see.  Did  it  ever  strike  you,  Mab,  that  there's  a  re- 
semblance between  that  lady  and  myself?" 

"Heavens,  no!"  cried  Mabel.  "No  more  than  be- 
tween you  and  me.  She  was  diplomatic,  and  she  took 
life  easily,  while  you — why,  my  dear — you  have  been 
knocking  your  head  against  stone  walls  all  your  days. 
Fancy  that  placid  lady  thinking  it  worth  while  to 
resist  what  is!" 

"Well,  I'm  learning  a  little,  perhaps,  in  the  painful 
process,"  answered  Folly,  smiling.  "But  that  isn't 
all.  .  .  ." 

"Why  have  you  come  to  town?"  was  the  brusque 
question. 

"I'm  looking  for  work." 

Mabel  repeated  the  words  to  herself,  and  considered 
them  in  silence,  before  she  ventured  to  ask  timidly: 
"Work,  did  you  say?" 

"Yes,  work,"  answered  Folly,  still  standing  before 
"La  Giaconda."  "It's  supposed  to  be  a  remedy 
for  too  much  soul,  isn't  it  ?  Monna  Lisa  suffered  from 
that  malady,  I  know;  that's  where  I  fancied  the  re- 
semblance. She  ought  to  have  been  made  to  do  manual 
labour." 

319 


Folly 

"Are  you  going  to  turn  charwoman?"  inquired 
Mabel. 

"That's  a  possibility  I  had  not  considered.  I've 
thought  of  almost  everything  else." 

"But  surely  you  have  money  enough — "  began 
Mrs.  Gregory. 

"Heaps.    Too  much.    I  shall  not  work  for  money." 

"What  for,  then?" 

Folly  hesitated  a  while  before  she  answered:  "Shall 
we  say,  to  soil  my  hands?  They  have  been  clean  all 
my  life." 

"Oh,  no,  I  deny  it,"  said  Mabel,  with  energy.  "I 
can  still  hear  an  old  refrain  from  Paris :  '  Pass  the  tur- 
pentine, will  you?' " 

"Well,  anyway,  that  shows  I  tried  to  keep  them 
clean,  even  in  those  days;  now  I  want  to  make  them 
dirty." 

"  Do  you  see  any  particular  merit  in  such  a  perform- 
ance?" asked  Mabel,  with  gentle  irony. 

"The  merit  of  change,  at  least."  Folly's  tone  had 
become  somewhat  sharp,  and  Mabel  did  not  press  the 
matter. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  mean  to  take  up 
portrait-painting  in  good  earnest?" 

"Far  from  it;  nor  any  form  of  art — wood-carv- 
ing, leather-work,  china-painting  or  paper  flowers. 
No,  the  back  of  my  small  talent  was  broken  long  ago; 
and  I  don't  care  to  play  the  fool  among  admiring 
friends." 

320 


Folly 

"There  I  think  you're  wrong,"  protested  Mabel. 
"I  don't  mean  about  the  profession,  of  course.  I  de- 
cided to  drop  mine  when  I  married.  I  shall  have  quite 
enough  to  do  as  a  professional  wife.  But  I  don't  see 
any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go  in  for  some  of  the 
useful  arts." 

"Don't  you?"  said  Folly.  "I  see  two.  One  is,  I 
haven't  got  the  workman's  hand;  and  the  other  is, 
they  are  ornamental,  and  what  should  I  ornament? 
And  without  talent  or  object,  I  fail  to  see  the  good. 
Besides,  why  on  earth  should  I?" 

Mabel  felt  that  her  answer  was  lame :  "  It  would  give 
you  an  occupation  and  another  interest  in  life,  and  you 
might  develop  an  unsuspected  talent.  ..." 

Folly  shook  her  head:  "It  would  never  do,  Mab. 
Suppose  I  did  develop  a  talent — which  is  unlikely 
enough — what  should  I  do  with  the  things  when  I  had 
made  them  ?  Give  them  away  ?  Sell  them  and  pass  the 
money  on  to  charity  ?  I  don't  want  to  be  another  ama- 
teur to  burden  the  earth." 

Mabel  yielded  the  point:  "Well,  what  do  you  mean 
to  do?" 

"What  do  people  usually  do  in  my  case?" 

"Not  the  stage?" — there  was  a  certain  fear  in  Ma- 
bel's eyes. 

"No,  dear,  although  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  could 
make  a  success  in  high  tragedy.  But  I  have  too  much 
respect  for  the  drama." 

"I  hope  you  won't  try  to  write  a  book,"    said 

21  321 


Folly 

Mabel,  with  the  air  of  one  martyred  by  experi- 
ence. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  But  I  should  have  noth- 
ing to  write  about  but  my  own  story.  What  remains, 
Mab?" 

"Good  works." 

"  Just  so ;  but  there  are  so  many  branches  in  this  pro- 
fession that  I'm  bewildered.  I've  considered  most  of 
them,  I  believe:  ordinary  church  work;  missions,  for- 
eign and  domestic ;  slumming,  with  or  without  a  curate ; 
settlements,  and  district-visits,  and  model  dwellings 
and  so  on.  I  suppose  they  are  all  excellent  in  their 
way;  but  they  don't  seem  to  fit  into  my  disposition." 

"I  can't  see  you  as  a  missionary,"  confessed  Mabel, 
"preaching  to  natives  grouped  against  a  background 
of  banana-trees,  and  telling  them  that  they  ought  to 
wear  clothes." 

"And  I  can't  embroider  altar-cloths;  and  I  think 
district- visiting  is  impertinent;  and  at  a  settlement  I 
should  want  to  talk  heresy,  anarchy  and  atheism  all  the 
time;  and  my  model-dwellings  would  be  the  worst  of 
the  lot — so  there  I  am!" 

"Yes — the  old  Folly  still,"  said  Mabel,  rejoicing  in 
the  fact. 

But  the  Folly  before  her  looked  at  her  with  grave 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  ignored  her  exclamation.  "Do 
you  think  I  should  do  for  a  nurse?" 

"By  no  means,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

"So  I  thought,"  said  Folly.     "I  might  stand  the 
322 


Folly 

scrubbing  and  the  polishing  and  all  that;  but  I  should 
not  like  the  discipline.  ..." 

"Don't  think  of  it  for  a  moment,"  said  Mabel. 
"You  would  have  all  the  nurses  on  their  ears  in  a 
week;  and  the  staff  would  resign  in  a  body." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Folly,  "I'm  in  a  hole,  for  I  can't 
find  anything  to  do." 

Mabel  looked  anxious.   "There's  one  thing  ..." 

"Now  you  are  going  to  begin  about  Andrew,"  Folly 
forestalled  her,  "and  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  we 
have  agreed  not  to  make  it  up." 

"Did  he  agree?"  cried  Mabel  astonished. 

"My  dear  Mab,  it  was  his  own  idea.  Of  course,  I 
have  treated  him  ..." 

"Yes,"  answered  Mabel.  "I  really  think  you 
have." 

"  I  was  always  a  selfish  ..." 

"Yes,"  said  Mabel  again.    "You  were — almost." 

"However,  the  only  amends  I  could  make  was  to  go 
back.  I  offered  that,  and  he  refused;  so  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

"But  some  day ?" 

"No  day." 

"I  see  his  point  of  view,"  mused  Mabel.  "It's 
natural;  but  I  did  not  expect  it  of  him.  He  was  always 
too  fond  of  you,  Folly.  But  really,  you  cannot  blame 
him  now,  if  after  all  that  has  happened  ..." 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Folly.    "Far  from  it." 

"Can  you  not  humble  yourself?" 
323 


Folly 

"I  did;  but  it  made  no  difference.  He  thought  it 
would  not  do;  and  I  daresay  he  was  right." 

"You  do  not  want  to  go  back?"  asked  Mabel,  taking 
her  hand. 

"There's  a  thing  we  have  not  spoken  of,"  said  Folly 
quietly.  "I  thought  I  could  not  live  through  it;  but  I 
have  borne  it,  as  people  do  bear  things.  And  I  can 
go  on  and  laugh  when  I  should,  and  do  what  I  ought 
to  do,  I  hope;  but  as  for  wanting  this  or  that,  I 
want  nothing  but  the  balance,  the  peace  that  gives 

life  a  meaning I  was  thinking  of   Andrew, 

of  course." 

"Ah!" — a  light  broke  over  Mabel's  face — "now  I 
understand  his  point  of  view." 

"But  you  see  that  it  is  out  of  the  question?" 

"Stranger  things  have  happened  in  this  illogical 
old  world." 

"I  must  go,"  said  Folly. 

And  Mabel:  "Where  are  you  stopping?" 

"I  have  taken  rooms  for  the  present  in  Mecklen- 
burg Street.  Yes,  it's  a  queer  little  corner.  I  found  it 
myself,  and  it's  near  the  slums." 

"But  you  should  be  here,"  cried  Mrs.  Gregory,  dis- 
tressed. 

"You  would  clip  my  freedom?  No,  but  I'll  come  in 
to  dinner  whenever  you  say,  and — congratulate  your 
doctor  on  his  luck." 

"And  your  case?" 

324 


Folly 

"Oh,  it  can  wait.  We'll  talk  of  it  again.  I  am 
watching,  just  watching  the  whirl  of  life  as  it  goes  on 
about  me;  and  being  quiet,  I  think  I  am  learning  a 
little.  Perhaps  one  day  I  shall  be  wise." 


325 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

CORAM 

SHE  would  not  be  persuaded  to  stop  longer  on  that 
day,  although  she  promised  to  return  soon.  On  the 
doorstep  she  lingered  with  Mabel  while  the  man  whis- 
tled several  times  for  a  cab. 

Then  she  grew  restless:  "I  shall  find  one  in  the 
Square,"  she  said,  and  fled  before  she  could  be 
stopped. 

She  liked  the  spray-like  rain  that  blew  against  her 
hot  face;  and  was  rather  glad  when  she  found  the 
Square  deserted  alike  of  cabs  and  of  the  loungers  who 
scrape  a  living  by  calling  them.  On  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  turned  from  the  roar  of  Oxford  Street  and  walked 
homeward  along  the  quiet  ways. 

She  was  a  stranger  among  the  back  streets  that  lead 
tortuously  and  with  many  breaks  from  Regent  Street 
to  Tottenham  Court  Road ;  but  she  had  a  wish  to  feel 
the  hum  of  the  poverty-stricken  life  that  lives  out  its 
years  there.  As  she  got  into  the  thick  of  it,  she  was 
dazed  and  frightened  rather  than  interested;  jostled 
along  between  the  fried-fish  shops  and  the  vegetable- 
stalls  in  the  roadway;  jumped  upon  by  loathsome  curs; 

326 


Polly 

stared  at  by  red-faced  women  and  impudent  men- 
pigmies  who  roared  with  laughter  as  soon  as  she  had 
passed;  her  ears  teased  by  a  barrel-organ,  near  which 
four  dirty  little  girls  were  dancing  ballet-steps  in  the 
rain.  It  seemed  to  her  a  world  of  low  black  houses, 
rank  and  stuffy ;  of  sweet-shops  that  made  one  feel  sick; 
of  pink  posters  glaring  out  sporting  news;  of  children 
eating  bread  and  sardines  on  doorsteps;  of  pawn- 
brokers and  public-houses;  of  pavements  set  out  with 
pink  flannelette  at  a  penny  three-farthings  the  yard; 
of  second-hand  boots  and  battered  furniture;  of  scabby 
cats  prowling  in  the  paper-littered  mud;  of  drunken 
shouts  and  tears  and  filth,  that  made  her  shrink  with 
utter  repugnance. 

"I  could  never  see  them  as  he  saw  them,"  she 
thought,  "not  if  I  live  to  be  as  old — as  old.  I  could 
never  work  in  the  slums." 

Several  times  she  lost  her  way  and  had  to  appeal  to  a 
policeman,  before,  at  lamp-lighting  tune,  she  came  out 
among  the  quiet  houses  of  Russell  Square. 

As  she  walked  along  Guildford  Street,  dark  and  al- 
most deserted,  she  was  beset  by  a  sense  of  escape  from 
horrors  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed  in  her  turbu- 
lent selfish  early  days;  and  by  a  certain  humiliation  in 
perceiving  that  from  this  part  of  the  world's  need  she 
was  excluded  by  the  limitations  of  her  own  nature.  He 
had  learned  to  love  such  people,  he  had  felt  their  com- 
mon humanity  with  himself;  he  might  have  served 

them  if  he  had  lived.    But  how  was  she  to  serve  who 

327 


Polly 

felt  only  loathing  for  their  disease?  She  saw  herself, 
for  the  first  time,  as  infinitesimally  small  and  feeble 
in  her  endeavour  to  cope  with  the  grinding  forces  of  the 
world.  She  reasoned  that  she  must  be  crushed,  one 
way  or  another,  in  the  hurly-burly;  but  yet  she  wanted 
to  try.  Perhaps  some  little  thing  she  might  do,  some- 
thing that  was  wholly  right,  that  would  make  use  of  all 
the  powers  of  her  heart  and  soul.  .  .  .  But  to  find  it  ? 

By  this  time  she  had  reached  the  Coram  Hospital, 
homely  and  comfortably  lighted  behind  its  forecourt 
of  lawn  and  great  trees,  and  at  the  gate,  scarcely  know- 
ing why,  she  paused  under  a  lamp  to  read  the  regula- 
tions for  admission  of  foundlings. 

"And  what  would  a  poor  desperate  woman  do,  who 
came  in  the  old  way  to  lay  her  baby  on  the  doorstep  of 
charity?"  she  asked  herself.  "And  how  is  it  with  the 
unwelcome  children  who  cannot  enter  for  the  red 
tape  .  .  .  ?" 

She  did  not  finish  her  question,  for  at  her  feet,  half 
shadowed  by  the  wall,  sat  a  little  girl,  perhaps  three  or 
four  years  old,  drooping  heavily  with  sleep. 

Forgetting  her  umbrella,  the  rain,  her  skirts,  Folly 
stooped  on  the  wet  stones  and  tried  to  rouse  the  small 
vagrant.  It  was  no  easy  task  to  get  her  to  her  feet ;  and 
when  at  last  she  stood,  with  one  hand  on  the  wall  for 
support,  and  the  other  rubbing  her  eyes,  Folly's  heart 
was  sick  with  pity  and  disgust. 

It  was  not  merely  that  she  was  so  dirty,  that  one 
stocking  hung  about  her  ankle,  and  the  other  through 

338 


Folly 

a  great  hole  showed  a  bruised  and  muddy  knee,  that 
her  clothes  had  been  cut  down  from  those  of  an  older 
child,  that  her  hair  was  a  hopeless  mop,  and  her  face 
streaked  with  rain  or  tears;  it  was  the  evidence  of 
needless  hopeless  disease  in  her  bleared  eyes  and 
scabbed  skin,  that  made  Folly's  heart  beat  hot  with 
rebellion. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  asked  sharply. 

The  child  did  not  seem  frightened,  "Waitin'  for 
muvver,"  she  droned. 

"Where  is  your  mother?" 

A  jerk  of  the  head  was  the  only  answer. 

"Can  you  take  me  to  her?" 

After  a  time  came  a  mumbled:  "She'd  give  it  ter 
me" — she  lapsed  into  drowsiness. 

Folly  shook  her.  "  Tell  me,  child.  Can  you  take  me 
to  your  home?" 

There  was  no  answer;  slumber  had  prevailed  again 
over  the  little  body  even  as  it  leaned  against  the  wall. 

Folly  continued  to  hold  her  by  one  arm,  and  looked 
round  for  help,  wondering  what  she  should  do.  No 
one  had  passed  by,  and  for  the  moment  the  street  was 
empty  of  cabs  and  vehicles.  Some  distance  away, 
toward  the  Gray's  Inn  Road,  the  light  of  a  street-lamp 
fell  upon  the  glazed  mackintosh  of  a  policeman.  See- 
ing this,  Folly  hesitated  no  longer,  but  lifted  the  child, 
light  enough  even  in  her  wet  ungainly  clothes,  and 
carried  her  eastward. 

The  policeman  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  well- 
329 


Folly 

dressed  lady,  unprotected  in  the  rain,  trailing  her  long 
skirt  over  the  muddy  pavement,  and  holding  in  her 
arms  a  pauper  child.  Then  he  grasped  the  situation. 

"Hullo,"  said  he,  "here's  Phyllis  Eugenia  again." 

"You  know  her?"  breathed  Folly  with  relief. 

"She's  on  my  beat,  marm.  I'll  take  charge  of  the 
kid  and  blow  'er  old  woman  up — she's  Soppy  Sade, 
that's  who  she  is.  Not  all  there,  you  know.  It's  a  pity 
you've  gone  and  got  yourself  muddy  now;  they  ain't 
worth  troubling  about — them  two." 

"Where  is  her  mother?"  Folly  would  know. 

"At  the  'Rising  Sun,'  I'll  bet  a  tanner.  She  don't 
bother  to  take  the  kid  in  out  of  the  rain.  I'll  go  now 
and  tell  her  to  look  sharp  or  she'll  get  run  in  by  the 
N.  S.  P.  C.  C." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Folly. 

The  constable  was  amused.  "To  think  now  of  your 
not  knowing  that,  marm!  It's  a  society  to  keep  parents 
from  murdering  their  young  'uns.  Give  'er  to  me" — 
for  she  still  held  Phyllis  Eugenia — "she'll  be  getting  too 
heavy  for  you." 

He  tried,  not  roughly,  to  wake  the  child;  but  failing, 
and  perceiving  that  when  he  stood  her  on  the  pave- 
ment she  was  like  to  topple  over,  he  took  her  in  his 
arms,  and  with  a  nod  to  Folly  was  about  to  move  away. 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Do  you  think  I  might  go  with 
you?  I  want  to  see  Soppy  Sade." 

The  constable  considered,  then  shook  his  head. 
"She's  not  for  the  likes  of  you  to  be  wasting  your  time 

330 


Folly 

on,  marm.  If  you  give  'er  a  bob,  she'll  drink  it  up  in  a 
mornin'.  Most  likely  she  was  havin'  a  tea-party  last 
night  on  'arf-an'-'arf,  or  what  ye  like;  and  kept  this 
youngster  awake  so  that  she  carn't  'old  'er  'ead  up. 
She's  a  bad  lot — Sade.  Lives  in  a  room  over  a  mews 
in  Sapphire  Street,  and  picks  up  a  livin'  anyhow. 
She's  been  warned  times  enough;  she'll  get  to  prison 
again — she's  done  time  before — and  the  kid  '11  end  in 
the  work'us.  It  won't  do  no  good — your  seein'  'er, 
marm.  She's  like  all  the  rest  of  'em;  and  when  she's 
drunk,  she  uses  language." 

Folly  scarcely  heard  him,  so  absorbed  was  she  in  a 
new  idea  which  had  seized  upon  her  with  a  rush  and 
crowded  out  every  other  thought. 

"All  right,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "never  mind."  She 
felt  in  her  purse  for  some  silver.  "Thank  you  very 
much.  And  look  here,  you'll  be  keeping  an  eye  on 
Phyllis  Eugenia,  won't  you?  Well,  if  it  ever  comes  to 
a  question  of  the  workhouse,  let  me  know.  Here's  my 
address.  I  shall  be  grateful." 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  marm,"  said  he.  "It's  no 
manner  of  good  trying  to  do  nothin'  for  the  old  woman, 
but  the  young  'un  ..." 

She  turned  away  from  him  into  the  darkness,  hailed 
a  cab  and  in  ten  minutes  was  again  on  Gregory's 
doorstep. 

She  found  Mabel  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
went  to  stand  before  her  on  the  rug. 

"No,  I  won't  sit  down.    Yes,  I  know  I'm  muddy, 


Folly 

and  I've  left  my  umbrella  at  the  Foundlings'  Home; 
but  I  had  to  come  back  at  once  to  tell  you  that  I  think 
I've  got  the  way.  ..." 

"Yes,  yes?"  said  Mab  eagerly. 

"Where's  your  husband?" 

"  Called  out  just  after  dinner — provoking!   Tell  me." 

"It's  the  tale  of  Phyllis  Eugenia,"  said  Folly,  and 
told  it,  not  without  a  suspicion  of  tears. 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"  Do  ?  Get  a  houseful  of  them,  and  look  after  them 
myself." 

"With  histories  like  that?"  Mabel  was  horrified. 

"You  don't  know  the  whole  of  it;  her  future  would 
lie,  partly  at  least,  in  my  hands.  I  would  give  them  all 
a  chance." 

"Would  you  go  about  the  streets  picking  them  up?" 
asked  Mabel. 

"Why,  I  might;  but  I  can  think  of  a  better  way — 
your  husband.  Through  his  hospital — see?  Cases 
not  bad  enough  to  take  in;  too  bad  to  turn  away.  I 
should  get  a  home  in  the  country,  and  have  six  or  eight 
at  a  time,  and  make  them  well  and  happy  and  love 
them.  ..." 

"And  bring  them  up?"  asked  Mabel. 

"Who  knows?  I  might  become  a  Captain  Coram 
in  time." 

"It's  worth  trying,"  said  Mabel.  "Oh,  yes,"— she 
reflected  upon  certain  passages  in  Folly's  history — 
"it's  certainly  worth  trying." 

332 


Felly 

"Now  where  shall  I  find  my  house?"  Folly's  mind 
was  already  leaping  forward  to  practical  details. 

"There's  my  old  place,  Low  Eaves,"  suggested 
Mabel.  "The  model-farm  wouldn't  interfere;  and 
since  I've  built  the  new  house,  I'm  wanting  a  tenant 
for  the  other.  Would  you  like  to  try?  References 
exchanged,  of  course.  Ah,  there's  Greg" — as  the  door 
opened. 

She  had  an  anxious  moment  as  her  husband  and  Mrs. 
Christie  shook  hands.  But  Folly  was  earnest  and 
seemingly  unembarrassed,  and  plunged  at  once  into 
the  history  of  her  new  plan. 

He  listened  smiling,  suggesting  here  and  there,  until 
at  last  she  grew  suddenly  timid,  and  asked:  "Do  you 
think  it  might  possibly  work?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  he,  but  reserved  his  opinion. 


333 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

LOW  EAVES. 

WITHIN  a  fortnight,  Folly  was  mistress  of  Low 
Eaves,  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  that  looks  across  Surrey 
toward  Sunlands  less  than  thirty  miles  away.  It 
pleased  her,  she  could  not  tell  why,  to  fancy  a  certain 
resemblance  between  the  two  houses.  Both  were  old 
and  low,  with  their  bareness  made  beautiful  by  flower- 
ing climbers,  clematis,  wistaria,  honeysuckle,  jasmine, 
crimson  rambler  and  ivy;  both  faced  the  broad  plain 
over  which  sweep  the  sea- winds  from  the  South  Downs 
to  the  North;  and  both  were  sheltered  above  by  great 
woods — only  at  Low  Eaves,  instead  of  fir,  grows  beech. 

Surely,  Folly  thought,  as  she  stood  in  her  own  porch 
and  let  the  breeze  lift  her  hair,  here  on  the  heights, 
looking  down  upon  the  sunny  fields,  she  might  find 
peace  of  heart. 

She  rejoiced  that  there  was  much  work  to  do.  Her 
brisk  little  pony-cart,  one  of  her  first  purchases,  was 
kept  busy  rattling  from  painter  to  paper-hanger,  and 
from  plumber  to  odd-job  man.  There  followed  trips 
up  to  town,  and  shopping  with  Mabel,  and  despatch- 
ing of  household  goods.  She  planned  night  and  day. 

334 


Folly 

"As  long  as  she  has  so  much  to  do "  began 

Mabel,  encouraged. 

Gregory  shook  his  head.  "We  shall  see.  But  it's  a 
sound  idea." 

When  the  furniture  arrived,  Folly  was  in  such  haste 
to  send  word  to  Gregory  that  she  was  ready  for  the  first 
patient,  that  she  rolled  up  her  sleeves  and  put  herself 
sadly  in  the  way  of  the  two  women  she  had  engaged  to 
do  the  housekeeping. 

But  she  proved  not  altogether  useless.  Her  quick 
brain  devised  ways  and  means  where  the  workmen  had 
been  at  fault  and  the  other  women  could  only  stand  by 
and  lament.  She  had  a  sense  of  pleased  discovery  upon 
finding  herself  deft  with  her  fingers  and  fertile  of  expe- 
dients. 

There  was  little  about  the  practical  ordering  of  a 
house  that  she  did  not  attempt  within  the  first  week; 
and  she  learned  much,  from  the  hammering  of  nails  to 
the  management  of  smoky  fireplaces.  She  was  not 
content  to  plan  the  garden  merely;  she  took  a  turn  at 
the  digging,  while  the  gardener  was  having  his  noon- 
tide nap,  and  went  indoors  with  blistered  hands,  and  a 
fine  high  colour.  She  attempted  cooking,  and  showed 
delicate  perceptions  in  the  way  of  sauces  and  season- 
ings, and  a  light  touch  for  pastry.  She  studied  a  treatise 
on  Dorking  fowls;  and  only  when  her  repeated  efforts 
at  milking  produced  nothing  but  bovine  bad  temper, 
did  she  reluctantly  relinquish  this  duty  to  the  boy. 

On  the  great  day  when  the  first  patient  was  ex- 
335 


Folly 

pected,  she  put  on  the  uniform  that  she  had  devised  as 
suitable,  and  after  a  long  struggle  with  file  and  pumice 
to  remove  the  stains  of  the  soil  from  her  hands,  she  took 
a  last  survey  of  the  home  that  she  could  honestly  say 
she  had  made  for  herself,  in  this  new  ordering  of  her 
life. 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  she  had  not  paused  a 
moment  in  the  lower  hall  to  survey  in  the  glass  her  tall 
figure  in  gray-blue  linen,  with  broad  white  collar  and 
cuffs,  her  fair  head  smooth  and  demure,  and  the  quiet 
eyes,  now  more  blue  than  gray,  that  met  hers  serenely. 
"It  can't  be  Folly,"  she  said  to  her  image.  " It  must  be 
somebody  else." 

She  could  not  restrain  a  glow  of  satisfaction  as  she 
went  over  the  house,  different  as  it  was  from  her  old 
ideal  of  a  dwelling-place.  Sunlands  was  the  home  of 
fine  traditions,  full  of  the  memories  of  lives  well  lived; 
this  was  nothing  more  than  a  haven  for  unhappy  little 
ones  with  no  past,  and  no  future  but  that  which  she 
might  be  able  to  give  them. 

Upstairs  were  the  two  big  nurseries:  the  day-room, 
with  its  cupboards  full  of  treasures,  its  books  and  pic- 
tures and  flowers;  the  dormitory,  as  complete  as  a  hos- 
pital ward,  with  every  contrivance  to  lend  comfort  and 
ease  pain. 

In  these  two  rooms,  Folly  had  a  secret  joy  that  she 
shared  with  no  one  else,  for  here  alone  it  was  that  she 
was  spending  and  intended  to  spend  the  small  income 
of  Haldane's  hard-earned  money.  Not  a  penny,  she 

336 


Folly 

vowed,  should  go  for  other  purpose  than  to  sweeten 
childhood.  Some  day,  she  thought,  when  she  could 
bear  to  talk  again,  she  would  tell  her  little  ones  how 
this  joy  and  that,  and  all  joys,  came  to  them  from 
"Uncle  Hal."  Such  fame  he  would  have  loved.  But 
the  time  for  that  was  not  yet. 

Aside  from  the  nurseries,  were  several  small  bed- 
rooms for  poor  guests,  two  or  three,  who  might  have 
outgrown  babyhood. 

Downstairs  was  the  dining-room,  which  could  also 
be  used  as  a  school- room,  if  need  arose  of  teaching;  as 
were  the  kitchen  and  scullery,  together  with  perfectly 
appointed  store-rooms,  where  anything  not  perishable 
could  be  had  for  the  asking;  and  in  one  of  these  was  a 
small  dispensary. 

One  sitting-room  Folly  reserved  for  herself;  and  this 
was  furnished  in  a  way  curiously  in  contrast  with  every- 
thing that  she  had  known  and  loved  before.  It  was 
bare,  but  not  cold,  done  with  soft  greens  for  summer; 
and  there  were  golden-toned  curtains,  now  put  aside, 
to  be  brought  in  for  winter.  The  furniture  obtruded 
itself  only  as  intended  to  rest  weary  bodies;  and  the 
few  pictures  were  all  of  a  spiritual  significance,  such  as: 
Walther  Firle's  "Lord's  Prayer"  with  its  humble 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"  its  piteous  "For- 
give us  our  trespasses,"  and  its  patient  "Thy  will  be 
done";  Andrea  del  Sarto's  "St.  James,"  with  little 
children  clinging  to  his  robe;  Carpaccio's  "  St.  George," 
in  headlong  tilt  at  the  dragon  of  evil;  Anton  Mauve's 
?3  337 


Folly 

"Hauling  of  the  Log,"  with  its  suggestion  of  reposeful 
labour.  And  there  were  no  books  except  a  little  heap 
on  Folly's  writing-table,  such  as:  "Practical  Hints  to 
Nurses,"  "The  Mother's  Guide,"  "Childhood's  Ac- 
cidents," "Simple  Remedies,"  "Lectures  on  Sanita- 
tion," "The  Successful  Gardener,"  "Cooking  for  Con- 
valescents," "Gymnastics  in  the  Home,"  etc.,  besides 
a  sheaf  of  journals  and  pamphlets. 

Content  as  she  was  with  her  nest,  Folly  was  happier 
outdoors  in  the  garden,  now  wild  and  overgrown,  but  to 
be  reclaimed  next  year  and  crowded  with  sweetness; 
and  in  the  big  orchard,  hedged  in  with  quick  and  privet 
and  holly  and  wild  sloe,  where  hammocks  could  be 
swung  between  the  apple-trees. 

She  wandered  out  upon  the  breezy  hillside,  not 
thinking  much,  except  to  wonder  now  and  then  whether 
she  had  prepared  every  possible  thing  for  the  comfort 
of  her  little  guests,  but  for  the  most  part  content  to 
drink  in  the  quiet  of  the  summer  afternoon;  and  to 
link  together  chains  of  moon-daisies  for  some  child  that 
had  perhaps  never  seen  such  a  thing. 

It  was  only  when  she  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  beech- 
wood,  looking  toward  Sunlands,  that  her  mind  roved 
back  to  the  remembrance  of  her  own  history.  For  the 
first  time,  she  fancied  she  could  see  it  as  one  per- 
fectly detached.  What  a  troublous  and  troublesome 
woman  she  had  been,  always  gambling  for  happiness 
and  losing  at  every  throw!  But  she  had  learned  that  it 
came  not  in  the  taking,  or  even  in  the  giving,  of  love 

338 


Polly 

alone;  and  whether  it  came  in  the  path  of  the  selfless 
love  that  lives  only  to  serve — that  she  would  soon  know. 
It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she  had  always  been  strug- 
gling against  the  inevitable,  against  death,  and  against 
spiritual  forces  more  terrible  than  death,  the  indissol- 
uble union  of  spirit  to  flesh,  the  indissoluble  barriers 
between  spirit  and  spirit.  .  .  .  Never  once  had  she 
won.  The  great  mysteries  were  still  the  great 
mysteries.  But  somehow  she  had  come  out  into  the 
clear  sunny  air  above,  with  nothing  to  think,  or  to  do, 
but  to  make  well  and  happy  a  few  sick  children,  to 
lighten,  even  if  imperceptibly,  the  turbid  misery  of  this 
world. 

Toward  sunset,  she  went  down  to  the  gate,  in  mo- 
mentary expectation  of  the  pony-trap.  There  as  she 
waited,  she  fell  into  a  sadder  mood,  being,  no  doubt, 
over- tired;  and  she  wondered  whether  she  would  ever 
be  able  to  persist,  to  hold  out  fighting,  to  make  a  suc- 
cess of  this — she  who  had  so  often  failed  before. 

But  she  forgot  everything  at  the  first  glimpse  of  a 
gray-cloaked  nurse,  and  ran  out  into  the  grassy  road 
to  meet  the  slow  vehicle. 

"What  have  you  brought  me?"  she  cried,  eager  as 
a  child  for  a  birthday  present. 

The  nurse  opened  her  gray  cloak,  and  showed  a 
baby,  as  little  and  frail  as  Folly  had  not  dreamed  a 
baby  could  be. 

"It  lias  been  fed  on  peppermint- water,"  said  the 
nurse. 

339 


Folly 

And  Folly,  dropping  her  daisy-chain  upon  the 
ground,  clasped  the  little  bunch  of  bones  to  her  heart, 
feeling  that  the  new  peace  was  ID  very  deed  descending 
upon  her. 


340 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MOTHER  AND  SON. 

"WELL,  Andrew,  well?"  Mrs.  Christie  sometimes 
affected  a  little  brusqueness  of  surprise  to  mask  her 
exceeding  joy  when  her  son  unexpectedly  arrived  on  a 
visit  at  Westmouth. 

"Well,  mater?  You  look  as  fresh  as  your  snowdrops 
this  spring." 

"No,  I'm  like  those  ugly  everlasting  flowers;  I  never 
fade,"  she  returned,  with  her  face  crinkling  into  many 
smiles.  "How's  Sunlands?" 

"Mortal  empty." 

"And  mortal  dull?" 

"Dull  enough." 

"Is  that  why  you  went  to  the  far  steppes  and  the 
Balkans  and  all  those  other  outlandish  places  that  no- 
body ever  heard  of?" 

"I  daresay.    They  were  tolerably  dull  too." 

"No  doubt.  I'm  afraid  it's  yourself  that's  dull. 
How  long  is  it  now  since  Folly  left  you  to  your  own 
devices?" 

"It's  nearly  a  year,  mater." 

"And  you  don't  like  it?" 
341 


Folly 

He  laughed. 

"Then  it's  high  time  for  you  to  look  her  up  and  fetch 
her  back. " 

He  shook  his  head  in  a  decided  negation. 

"I  might  die  any  day,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,  mater.    You'll  outlive  me  yet." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  she,  with  sudden  seriousness. 
"I've  outlived  so  many."  A  tear  twinkled  a  moment 
in  the  corner  of  an  eye;  but  she  whisked  it  away  before 
he  saw  it. 

"It's  your  only  solution,  boy,"  she  continued. 

He  looked  at  her  with  grim  incredulity.  "Bless  you, 
mater,  she  doesn't  want  to  come." 

"When  have  you  asked  her?" 

"You  know  very  well — last  June — here." 

"  I  thought  so.  Did  you  ever  know  Folly  to  be  of  one 
mind  for  a  year  together?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  came  out  with  his 
thought.  "Yes,  she's  been  remarkably  consistent  for 
three  or  four  years  in  her  opinion  of  me." 

"  Just  about  time,  then,"  she  observed  imperturbably, 
"for  her  to  change  again.  She  liked  you  at  first." 

"Did  she?  "he  asked.    "Huh!" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  continued,  as  if  musing  aloud, 
"that  you  didn't  make  a  mistake  in  sending  her  away 
last  spring." 

"My  dear  mater,  she  pitied  me!" 

"My  dear  Andrew,  pity  is  not  altogether  such  a  bad 
thing  to  have." 

342 


Folly 

"Well" — for  a  moment  he  seemed  at  a  loss,  then 
asked:  "Did  anyone  ever  offer  you  a  stone  when  you 
were  hungry?" 

"I  don't  call  pity  a  stone;  it's  more  like  the  flour 
that  makes  up  into  the  bread  of  love." 

He  considered  this.  "Not  some  kinds  of  pity.  It 
may  be  very  starchy — dutiful  pity — hers  was — but  not 
nourishing.  Shall  we  talk  of  something  else?" 

"So  you  won't  go  and  look  her  up?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  of  any  use." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is  now?" 

"No." 

"But  you  could  find  out?" 

"I  daresay  Mrs.  Gregory  knows;  and,  of  course, 
you  do." 

"Why  not ?" 

"I  tell  you  it's  no  use,  mater.  She's  happier  without 
me." 

"You  speak  with  amazing  assurance,  considering 
the  fact  that  you  haven't  seen  her  for  a  year." 

"I  judge  the  future  by  the  past,"  said  he. 

"Which  is  an  extremely  foolish  thing  to  do.  You 
never  know  what  good  man  is  going  to  break  out  and 
commit  a  murder,  or  what  sinner  is  going  to  reform." 

"Has  she  reformed?"  he  asked,  taking  the  sense  of 
her  words. 

Her  eyes  twinkled,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"Have  you  seen  her  lately?" 

"About  a  fortnight  ago." 
343 


Folly 

"Where  was  she  then?" 

"Ah — ah!"  she  jeered  at  him. 

He  flushed.  "Well,  it's  only  natural  ..." 

"To  be  sure.  You  wouldn't  trouble  to  look  her  up; 
but  when  the  information  knocks  at  your  door,  you 
open  in  a  hurry." 

"Have  your  laugh,"  said  he,  patiently. 

"So  I  shall.    But  I  shall  not  tell  you,  all  the  same." 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  anyway. 
But  why  not?" 

"  Because  I  don't  think  it  would  be  good  for  you  to 
know.  You  might  do  damage." 

"What  damage?"  he  asked,  staring. 

"Oh,  flower-beds  and  window-panes  and  the  like — 
you're  only  a  boy,  after  all." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I  should  go  to  see  her,"  he 
hastened  to  reply. 

"My  dear  boy,  knowing  how  you  dislike  the  woman, 
I  should  never  dream  of  such  a  thing!" 

He  perceived  that  there  was  mischief  somewhere; 
but  her  eyes  were  demure,  though  her  underlip  trem- 
bled slightly. 

"My  dear  mater,  you're  too  many  for  me,"  he  con- 
fessed. "What  are  you  getting  at?" 

"The  good  of  your  soul,  my  friend,"  she  retorted 
unexpectedly. 

"And  what  do  you  think  would  be  good  for  my 
soul?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  good  for  your  soul,"  she  re- 
344 


Folly 

peated  gravely,  with  another  sudden  quirk,  "to  give  an 
account  of  yourself  for  the  past  six  months." 

He  moved  about  the  room,  restlessly  fingering  her 
books  and  papers,  and  the  ornaments  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  needlessly  poking  at  the  fire. 

"I  sailed  from  Brindisi" — he  began,  and  ended 
with  an  abrupt  "Bosh!" 

"Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed,  with  affected  surprise. 
"And  then ?" 

"We  landed "  said  he,  and  again  came  to  an 

untimely  end. 

"How  interesting!"  says  she.  "You  landed — yes? 
And  walked  ashore,  no  doubt?  And  met  custom- 
house officials  ?  And  in  time  returned  home  ?  Ah,  yes, 
there's  nothing  like  travel  for  improving  the  mind." 

"Mater,"  he  pleaded,  "there's  a  time  for  teas- 
ing .  .  .» 

"Boy,"  she  answered,  with  equal  solemnity,  "I'm 
sure  that's  not  in  Ecclesiastes." 

But  she  could  not  stem  the  tide  of  his  question: 
"You  might  just  tell  me  how  she  is?" 

She  deliberately  removed  her  glasses  and  began  tap- 
ping them  against  the  palm  of  her  hand.  "She's  very 
busy  with  her  family." 

He  wheeled  upon  her  and  stared.  "Her  family?" 

She  smiled  and  nodded. 

"What  family?" 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  as  if  he  ought  to 
have  known  all  about  it;  and  his  bewilderment  in- 

345 


Folly 

creased.   "You  mean  cousins  and  aunts  and  that  sort 
of  thing?" 

"No,  I  mean  her  children,"  she  answered  serenely. 

He  stood  before  her  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
studied  her  face  anxiously.  "Mater,  have  you  been 
quite  well  lately?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,  boy;  and  I'll  trouble  you  not  to 
cast  doubt  upon  my  sanity.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about  better  than  you  do,"  she  answered,  with  all  the 
briskness  in  the  world. 

"That  is  certain;  I  should  like  information,"  he 
answered  meekly. 

"Well,  the  next  time  she  comes  here — and  she's  a 
good  girl  about  keeping  up  with  me — I'll  see  if  I  can 
get  her  to  invite  you  down.  ..." 

"  But  where  ?  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  mysterious, 
mater." 

"Why,  boy,  mystery  is  the  spice  of  life  to  me,"  she 
retorted. 

"You  forget  that  it  may  be  a  little  peppery  to  me," 
said  her  son. 

"Ah,  well,  perhaps  your  soul  may  be  needing  pepper 
just  now." 

He  shrugged  as  one  who  should  say:  "What  can  be 
done  with  a  woman  like  this?" 

She  pulled  him  up  sharply:  "Come,  now,  shall  I 
invite  you  both  here  at  the  same  time?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  he  quietly. 

"You  refuse  to  see  her  then?" 
346 


Folly 

"I  think  it's  better  ..." 

"But  you  don't  know  what  may  have  happened 
during  the  year.  I  never  told  you." 

"Something  seems  to  have  happened;  but  hardly 
the  thing  that  alone  would  justify  our  making  it  up." 

"Then  you  won't  go  and  fall  on  your  knees  to  her?" 

"No." 

"And  you  won't  let  her  come  and  fall  on  her  knees 
to  you?" 

"Least  of  all — even  if  she  would.  Mater,  can't  you 
allow  a  fellow  a  decent  pride  ?  " 

"Pride  ruined  Lucifer,"  said  she.  "And  what  are 
you  so  proud  of  ?  Your  obstinacy  ?  " 

He  went  to  lean  over  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  took 
her  face  in  his  hands.  "Mater,  you  are  commonly  a 
woman  of  extraordinary  perception  and  judgment  and 
sense;  but  in  this  case  I  think  you  are  singularly  lack- 
ing in  all  three." 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose, 
after  that,  I'd  better  change  the  subject.  What  do  you 
propose  to  do  now?" 

"  Go  back  to  Sunlands  and  improve  the  estate." 

"But  who  was  talking  about  dullness?" 

"Will  you  come  and  live  with  me  then?" 

She  turned  away  to  hide  dim  eyes.  "Thank  you, 
boy;  but  I  came  here  when  your  dear  father  died,  and 
that's  nearly  forty  years  ago.  I  couldn't  move  back 
again." 

He  understood  that,  but  answered  only:  "Well, 
347 


Folly 

then,  I  shall  make  hard  work  my  companion,  and  turn 
model  landlord." 

"And  keep  Folly  out  of  your  life  altogether?" 

"She  keeps  herself  out,"  said  he,  and  hastened  to 
add:  "She  can't  help  it,  of  course." 

His  mother  looked  at  him,  and  could  find  no  relent- 
ing. "I  must  drop  the  matter,  I  see.  You'll  be  going 
up  to  town  presently?" 

"In  a  day  or  two." 

"I  thought  so.  Never  two  minutes  in  one  place. 
You  ought  to  be  chained  to  something — a  pillar,  say. 
Will  you  take  a  message  from  me  to  Mr.  Gregory?" 

"Gregory?" 

"To  be  sure.  When  they  were  here  in  the  winter, 
he  gave  me  a  tonic  that  lifted  twenty  years  off  my  shoul- 
ders in  a  month.  I  want  to  know  whether  I'm  to  get 
more  of  it,  or  whether  it  would  take  away  another 
twenty  years  and  make  me  look  ridiculous.  Or,  you 
might  ask  him  to  bring  Mabel  down  some  week-end 
soon.  Then  he  could  see  for  himself.  Oh,  it's  all 
right,  boy.  I'm  a  jolly  sight  better  than  you  are 
...  to  quote  your  own  slang.  And  perhaps  you'll 
just  convey  a  letter  to  Mab  at  the  same  time." 

Well,  she  might  have  used  the  post,  to  be  sure;  but 
he  assented  to  her  request,  without  giving  it  particular 
consideration. 

"Oh,  these  young  people,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self, as  he  was  leaving  the  room,  "these  young  people!" 

To  her  he  was  still  a  boy  of  twenty;  and  he  and  Folly 
348 


Folly 

were  but  foolish  children  for  whose  happiness  she  con- 
spired with  all  her  heart. 

"Have  you  said  your  last  word?"  she  demanded. 

"About  what?" — he  turned. 

"About  Folly." 

"That?    Oh,  yes." 

As  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door,  she  fell  a-laugh- 
?ng  gaily. 


349 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE  CONSPIRACY. 

THEY  were  only  three  at  table  the  night  that  Christie 
dined  in  Queen  Anne  Street.  Gregory,  to  be  sure,  had 
suggested  a  fourth;  but  Mabel  shook  her  head, 
laughing. 

"No,  there's  a  plot  afoot.  Materkin  is  ring- 
leader, and  you  and  I  must  play  into  her  hands  to- 
night. Andrew  won't  make  up  with  Folly,  and  Folly 
won't  make  up  with  Andrew;  so  we  propose  to  make 
them  make  up,  ourselves." 

"Better  not  meddle,"  he  chilled  her. 

"You  kill-hope!" 

"  But  if  they  don't  care  for  each  other,  they're  better 
apart." 

"  Well,  perhaps,  if  they  don't ;  but  materkin  and  I  are 
not  at  all  sure  that  there  isn't  some  meaning  behind 
their  violent  objections  to  meeting;  and  we  are  sick  of 
their  shilly-shallying." 

"But  what  can  you  do?" 

"Wait  and  see.  Meanwhile,  I'm  inviting  him  to 
dinner,  as  I  began  to  tell  you." 

So  Christie  came  alone;  and  notwithstanding 
350 


Folly 

Mabel's  best  efforts,  there  was  at  first  a  certain  awk- 
wardness in  the  situation.  Indeed,  occasionally  the 
two  men  eyed  each  other  with  a  kind  of  grim  humour 
that  recognized  the  fact  and  made  the  best  of  it. 

But  it  was  not  until  they  were  having  coffee  in  the 
library  that  Gregory,  who  was  on  the  watch,  could 
detect  any  trace  of  diplomacy. 

"You're  looking  rather  seedy,  Andrew,"  she  began 
abruptly. 

"Ah,  well,  don't  forget  that  I'm  a  country  squire 
away  from  his  acres." 

"I  suppose  you've  been  having  so  many  adventures 
abroad  that  England  seems  slow  to  you." 

"Rather  not,"  said  he,  "as  I'm  going  down  to  Sun- 
lands  in  a  day  or  two  to  settle  for  good,  I  hope.  I  like 
farming,  you  know." 

Mabel  sent  a  long  reflective  look  to  her  husband, 
before  she  lisped:  "So  do  I.  And  you've  never  yet 
seen  my  model-farm  at  Low  Eaves;  you  ought  to  go 
down.  I've  made  a  good  many  improvements  lately." 

Gregory  stared  at  his  wife;  but  had  the  sense  not  to 
protest. 

"You  don't  manage  it  yourself;  that  counts  for 
nothing.  You're  an  amateur,"  said  he  idly. 

"All  the  same,  it  might  give  you  points.  It  is  in 
good  hands.  Would  you  like  to  go  down  this  week-end  ? 
Greg  would  take  you." 

"Delighted,"  murmured  Gregory. 

"Thanks,"  began  Christie,  "I  hardly  know  ..." 


Folly 

But  she  would  not  let  him  escape. 

"To-morrow  is  Friday.    What  time,  Greg ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  she  frowned  at  him. 

"I'm  busy/'  he  began,  and  concluded  with  a  hasty: 
"There's  the  telephone,"  and  retreated,  as  she  frowned 
again. 

The  two  left  together  talked  idly;  or  rather,  Mabel 
chattered  with  careful  aimlessness,  while  Christie 
smoked  and  gave  brief  replies  and  stared  into  the  fire. 

Presently  she  made  an  excuse  for  following  her  hus- 
band, and  found  him  collecting  his  instruments,  pre- 
pared to  go  out. 

"Just  a  word,"  said  she.  "I  shall  send  him  to  that 
three-thirty  train  from  Victoria,  and  tell  him  to  go  on 
even  if  he  doesn't  see  you  at  the  station,  as  you're  given 
to  clutching  the  end  of  a  train  by  the  guard's  van — con- 
trary to  law  and  reason.  And  you're  to  miss  the  train, 
understand?" 

"Not  difficult,"  he  grunted,  "as  I'm  due  at  the  hos- 
pital from  two  to  four." 

"  Right  enough.  And  I'll  telegraph  to  Folly  to  send 
to  meet  a  new  patient — see?  It's  great!  Meanwhile, 
I'll  go  prepare  his  mind." 

"How  about  hers?"  he  asked,  drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"  Dear  man,  I've  been  working  on  hers  for  the  past 
six  months;  if  it  isn't  prepared  now,  it  never  will  be!" 

"Just  like  you  women,"  he  growled.  "No  sooner 
does  she  get  settled  and  comfortable,  than  you  want  to 
stir  it  all  up  again.  Better  let  well  enough  alone." 

352 


Folly 

"But,  Greg,"  she  began,  and  decided  not  to  argue 
at  this  time.  "It  would  please  materkin,"  she  contin- 
ued, "and  the  dear  old  lady  has  been  industriously 
breaking  ground  on  both  sides." 

"Without  success — eh?" 

"Wait  and  see,"  she  answered. 

But  she  found  the  preparation  of  Christie's  mind 
rather  a  delicate  matter;  and  after  one  or  two  attacks 
and  feints  towards  the  forbidden  theme,  she  pretended 
to  sheer  off  and  introduce  a  new  subject. 

"I  haven't  told  you  about  the  convalescent  home 
that  Greg's  interested  in,  have  I  ?  " 

"No,"  said  he,  but  did  not  evince  any  great  interest 
in  the  topic. 

Undiscouraged,  she  gave  him  an  account  of  the 
scheme,  and  grew  enthusiastic  over  details. 

"I  suppose  you  want  a  subscription?"  he  concluded. 

Oh,  dear,  no,  Mabel  had  not  meant  that  at  all! 

At  this  he  was  genuinely  surprised  and  asked: 
"Where  is  this  little  Paradise?" 

"Oh,  in  the  country,"  she  said,  in  a  large  way;  and 
added  for  his  further  enlightenment,  "  not  very  far  out." 

"I  see.    And  you  take  charge  of  it ?" 

"Oh,  no,  there's  a — a  matron  in  charge.  Such  a 
capable  woman,  and  so  charming!" 

"It's  a  success  then?" — he  made  conversation. 
"How  long  have  you  been  at  it?" 

"Oh— months,"    said   Mabel   grandly.      "Perhaps 
some  day  you'd  like  to  go  there  ?  " 
23  353 


Folly 

"No,  thanks,"  answered  Christie.  "I've  let  myself 
in  for  quite  enough." 

Mabel's  eyes  danced  as  she  said  to  herself:  "I  think 
you  have;  I  really  think  you  have."  Aloud  she  sighed : 
"I'm  rather  sorry  for  the  matron.  She  has  had  a  hard 
life — poor  thing!  Such  a  nice  woman,  and  she  is  sepa- 
rated from  her  husband%"  She  looked  at  him,  una- 
bashed: "I'd  like  to  see  that  husband." 

He  was  not  much  interested,  but  he  asked  patiently : 
"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know" — Mabel  waved  her  hands 
airily.  "I  have  heard  only  one  side  of  the  story;  I'd 
like  to  know  what  his  defence  is.  But  Mrs.  ..." 

She  hesitated,  and  he  looked  at  her  in  sudden  sharp 
suspicion. 

"...  Westerbeck,"  she  said  serenely;  and  stopped, 
amazed  at  her  own  invention.  "O  Mab,  Mab,"  she 
chuckled,  "does  lying  come  so  easy?  And  wherever 
did  you  get  the  name?" 

He  did  not  notice  any  delay,  as  she  continued :  "  Mrs. 
Westerbeck  is  a  woman  I  would  believe  against  almost 
anybody  else  under  oath." 

"  Me,  for  example  ?  "  he  asked,  trying  to  joke. 

"Not  you.  If  she  said  one  thing  and  you  another,  I 
don't  know  where  the  truth  would  lie.  But  I'm  boring 
you  with  my  charities?" 

He  did  not  deny  this. 

Presently,  when  he  rose  to  go,  he  turned  to  her  with- 
out preamble.  "Have  you  seen  her  lately?" 

354 


Folly 

"Yes,  she  was  here  last  week.  We  went  shopping 
together.  She  seems  very  well." 

He  struggled  with  another  question,  under  her  kind 
eyes;  but  it  would  not  come  out. 

"  She's  very  busy,"  she  suggested,  to  help  him  on. 

"So  the  mater  said,  and  talked  nonsense  about  a 
mysterious  family.  I  take  it  she's  found  some  poor 
relations  to  adopt?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Mabel.  "Poor  relations.  But"— 
she  anticipated  further  questioning — "don't  ask  me 
who  they  are,  for  I  can't  tell  you." 

"Is  she  often  in  town?"  he  queried;  and  called  him- 
self a  fool  for  his  pains. 

"H — m,"  said  Mabel,  with  her  head  on  one  side, 
"so-so."  Then  she  assumed  an  air  of  discovery. 
"  Come,  now,  why  shouldn't  you  two  be  friends  again, 
some  day? 

He  stiffened.  "I  am  not  aware  that  we  are  otherwise 
now." 

"Otherwise!"  she  repeated,  laughing.  "But  you 
know  what  I  mean.  If  I  give  you  her  address,  will  you 
go  to  see  her?" 

"Just  what  the  mater  said;  I  shall  begin  to  think 
there  is  a  plot  soon." 

"Dear,  dear!"  she  began;  but  had  the  grace  not  to 
pursue  the  fib.  "When  one  comes  to  think  about  it 
calmly,  what  is  it  after  all  that  keeps  you  apart  now?" 

Her  now  gave  him  his  answer:  "Memory." 

"But  memory's  a  dead  thing,"  she  protested. 
355 


Folly 

"What  is  so  alive  as  that  which  is  dead?" 

"It  sounds  like  an  epigram,"  said  she,  "so  I'm  sure 
it's  only  half  true." 

"Has  she  ever  indicated  to  you  the  slightest  wish  to 
come  back  to  me?" 

Then  Mabel  decided  to  abandon  the  argument:  "I 
can't  say  that  she  has.  But  I  don't  see  ... " 

"Don't  you?" — he  laughed.    "I  must  be  going." 

"About  to-morrow,"  she  admonished  him.  "Mind 
you  don't  miss  your  train,  because  the  farm  trap  will  be 
waiting  at  the  station.  I'm  sending  some  things  down. 
Greg  will  be  all  right  if  he  should  be  late.  There  are 
always  trains  enough,  and  he  can  get  a  cab  at  the  sta- 
tion. I  hope — they'll  be  good  to  you — if  you  have  to 
go  down  alone." 

He  thought  her  speech  a  little  odd,  but  made  no 
comment. 

"I  wonder!"  she  cried  to  herself,  when  he  had  gone. 
"Oh,  I  wonder!" 


356 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  NINTH  GUEST. 

TOMMY,  the  boy  who  drove  the  pony  trap  from  Low 
Eaves  to  the  station,  flattered  himself  that  he  had  a 
keen  eye  for  patients;  but  when,  on  this  day,  after  gath- 
ering up  various  parcels  and  boxes  from  the  platform, 
he  cast  a  diagnosing  glance  over  the  passengers,  he 
found  none.  The  only  stranger  who  did  not  at  once 
set  out  for  his  destination  was  a  big  red-faced  man  in  a 
shabby  tweed  ulster  and  cap,  who,  however,  to  the  boy's 
disgust,  came  up  to  the  trap  and  asked:  "From  Low 
Eaves?" 

Tommy  gaped  at  the  size  of  the  new  patient. 

"Well,  Mr.  Gregory  seems  to  have  missed  this  train. 
Shall  you  wait  for  the  next?" 

"No,  sir,"  answered  the  boy,  and  added,  with  a  cer- 
tain delicacy  for  the  feelings  of  the  burly-looking  in- 
valid: "Was  it  you  they  was  expecting,  sir?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Christie. 

Thereupon  Tommy  received  him  among  his  miscel- 
laneous collection;  but  he  had  made  the  old  pony 
trot  for  nearly  a  mile  before  he  recovered  from  his 
amazement. 

357 


Folly 

"We  usually  gets  'em  smaller,"  he  thought  aloud. 

"Eh?"  asked  Christie,  absorbed  in  his  own  reflec- 
tions. 

But  the  boy  blushed  and  refused  to  repeat  his  re- 
mark. 

However,  Christie  roused  himself  to  ask:  "How 
far?" 

"About  another  mile,  sir." 

"How  big  is  the  farm?" 

"The  farm?  Oh" — with  an  air  of  detachment  and 
condescension — "that's  about  seventy-five  acres  or  so." 

"And  who  runs  it?" 

"Mr.  Mills." 

"And  what  do  you  raise  chiefly?" 

"We?"  The  boy  grinned,  then  chuckled,  and  said 
with  laboured  f acetiousness :  "If  you  was  to  ask  me,  I 
should  say  it  was  kids,  sir.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  we 
was  expectin'  another  to-day." 

Christie  looked  uncomfortable.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"No  harm,  sir.  It  only  come  across  me  when  you 
ask  me  what  we  raise,  that  every  blame  thing  that's 
growed  here  goes  to  fatten  up  them  kids." 

' '  Large  family — eh  ? ' ' 

"Well,  I  dunno  what  you'd  call  large,  sir.  There's 
eight  young  'uns,  and  the  two  Sisters,  besides  the 
missus,  the  cook  and  the  housemaid,  the  gardener  and 
me,  not  counting  extra  help  had  in  sometimes.  And 
none  of  the  kids  isn't  more  than  six  years  old;  and  not 

358 


Folly 

&  healthy  oiie  among  the  lot.    I  wasn't  looking  forward 
to  another  myself;  but  the  missus  never  will  say  no." 

"But  I  was  asking  you  about  the  farm,"  pursued 
Christie. 

"Oh,  the  farm,"  said  the  boy  scornfully.  "We  ain't 
got  nothing  to  do  with  that — nothing  whatever." 

He  jumped  down,  opened  and  closed  a  gate  into  a 
by-lane.  Christie  forgot  question  and  answer  in  think- 
ing how  much  the  country  resembled  Sunlands. 

He  said  no  more  before  they  pulled  up  at  a  low  red 
farm-house,  with  a  steep  tiled  roof  overhanging  its 
wealth  of  creepers. 

At  the  door  stood  a  nurse  in  uniform,  who  looked 
past  him  at  the  boy.  "  Haven't  you  got  it  ?  " 

"He's  the  only  one  I  could  find,"  growled  the  lad, 
"and  he  said  you  was  expecting  him." 

The  nurse  advanced  a  step  or  two.  "  Did  you  wish 
to  see  some  one  here,  sir?" 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  a  mistake,"  said  he,  and  ex- 
plained that  Gregory  had  missed  the  train. 

"We  were  expecting  another  patient,"  said  she, 
"but  not  the  doctor." 

"  Patient  ?    What  is  this  place  then  ?  " 

"Low  Eaves,  sir." 

"Right,"  said  he;  but  struck  by  a  sudden  thought, 
stopped  short  in  the  very  act  of  getting  out.  "Is  this  a 
model-farm  or  a  convalescent  home  ?  " 

"Both,"  said  the  nurse,  smiling.  "Perhaps  you'd 
better  come  in  and  see  the  matron,  sir. " 

359 


Polly 

He  followed  her,  somewhat  dazed  as  he  tried  to 
piece  together  the  extent  and  reason  of  Mabel's  per- 
fidy; but  the  clue  escaped  him. 

The  nurse  left  him  by  the  hall  fire,  whence  he  could 
hear  murmuring  and  low  laughter  from  an  adjoining 
room. 

"What  name  shall  I  say?"  she  asked,  with  her  hand 
on  the  door. 

"Never  mind;  she  won't  know  me,"  said  he,  re- 
membering suddenly  that  this  would  be  the  lady  with 
the  curious  name  of  Westerbeck. 

Across  the  room  he  saw  a  woman  on  a  low  stool 
• — a  woman  in  gray  and  white,  with  fire-gleam  on 
her  hair,  and  her  face  hidden  behind  a  rampantly 
affectionate  bald-headed  baby.  She  was  endeavor- 
ing to  free  herself  from  the  clutches  of  the  little 
crowing  monster,  but  did  not  succeed  until  the  nurse 
went  to  her  assistance,  at  the  same  time  announcing 
the  visitor. 

Then,  still  keeping  the  baby  and  pressing  his  bob- 
bing head  and  eager  hands  against  her  shoulder,  she 
rose,  very  tall  and  straight,  and  came  forward  to  meet 
the  stranger,  showing  a  pink  face  and  a  halo  of  loosened 
fair  hair.  .  .  . 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  baby  gave  a  smoth- 
ered wail  of  protest  against  suffocation. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Mrs.  Westerbeck  stiffly. 
"Won't  you  sit  down?" 

Then  she  turned  to  the  nurse.    "Take  Teddy  up- 
360 


Folly 

stairs  now,  Sister.    It's  almost  his  sleepy-time.    And 
don't  forget  Emily's  medicines-there." 

It  was  a  matter  of  some  seconds,  detaching  the 
limpet-like  Teddy,  who  clearly  preferred  his  present 
rock,  and  expressed  his  choice  loudly;  but  presently 
Folly  herself  closed  the  door,  after  listening  there  until 
the  wails  of  the  afflicted  infant  died  away  into  silence. 


361 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"WHY  NEED  WE?" 

SHE  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  and  returned  to  her 
stool  by  the  fire. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  to  see  me,  or  you  wouldn't  have 
come?" 

"By  no  means,"  he  answered  bluntly.  "I  did  not 
dream  that  you  were  here.  I  expected  to  go  over  a 
model-farm." 

"Baby-farm?"  she  asked,  with  a  gleam  of  her  old 
fun;  but  sobered  quickly:  "You  came  down  alone?" 

He  explained  the  trick  which  had  been  played  upon 
the  two  of  them;  but  she  did  not  seem  vexed.  "You 
can  still  go  over  the  farm;  the  babies  are  only  a  mod- 
ern improvement.  Shall  I  send  for  Mills?" 

He  was  looking  at  her,  and  she  turned  away  to  the 
fire.  He  could  not  put  into  words  the  change  he  found 
in  her.  It  was  not  due  only  to  the  plainness  of  her 
dress;  it  seemed  as  if  her  expression  had  altered  her 
very  features,  so  that  the  forehead  was  broader  in 
its  serenity,  the  eyes  were  larger  in  their  thoughtful- 
ness,  the  nose  was  less  piquant,  the  mouth  sweeter  and 
more  firm.  The  very  set  of  the  chin  suggested  reason- 
ableness and  even  humility.  He  wondered  how  far 

362 


Folly 

the  changes  were  real,  and  how  far  he  fancied  them. 
But  she  turned  at  last  and  met  his  glance  squarely. 

"Well,  am  I  really  so  different?" 

He  wanted  time  to  answer  that,  so  waived  it :  "I  am 
beginning  to  see  a  thing  or  two.  You  have  a  large 
family?" 

"Eight,"  said  she,  "and  I  can  do  with  a  ninth;  but 
there  we  must  stop  for  the  present.  I  really  haven't  the 
room.  Some  day  I  may  add  a  wing;  I'm  thinking  of  it. 
But  the  need  is  so  great,  and  I'm  but  a  drop  in  the 
ocean.  Each  case  seems  more  urgent  than  the  last.  I 
expected  another  to-day." 

"But  not  the  one  who  came?  That's  not  so  ur- 
gent?" he  found  himself  asking. 

"You  would  like  to  see  the  farm?"  she  pursued. 

"It's  coming  on  to  rain,"  said  he,  from  the  window 
to  which  he  had  retreated. 

She  remembered  his  old  scorn  of  weathers,  and 
hastened  on  to:  "Will  Gregory  turn  up  later?" 

"He  intended  to  miss  that  train  ..." 

"True,  so  you  said;  I  am  forgetful,"  she  murmured. 

The  rain  beat  against  the  window,  as  he  wondered 
how  the  deuce  he  could  get  away  without  a  scene; 
while  she,  by  the  fire,  was  trying  to  remember  parallel 
instances  of  sensible  people  who  had  found  themselves 
in  such  a  peculiar  position,  and  what  they  had  said  and 
done. 

"I  see  there  is  no  train  until  six-thirty,"  he  observed, 
consulting  a  pocket-guide. 

363 


Folly 

"No — unfortunately,"  she  answered  to  the  fire. 

"Still,  if  I  take  it  slowly  ..." 

"Oh,  you  must  let  the  boy  drive  you,"  insisted  the 
courteous  hostess. 

"No  need  to  trouble  him  and  the  pony.  I  prefer  to 
walk,"  was  his  brusque  reply. 

"  Even  then,"  said  she,  after  an  uncomfortable  pause, 
"you  could  not  spend  an  hour  and  a  half  covering  two 
miles.  Will  you  come  and  look  over  my — baby- 
farm?" 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  blunder  out  the  refusal  that 
rose  to  his  lips ;  but  led  the  way  upstairs. 

On  the  second  step,  however,  she  paused  and  glanced 
at  him  over  her  shoulder.  "Do  you  remember  how  I 
used  to  scoff  about  babies  and  baby-farms  ?  We  never 
know  what  we  are  coming  to." 

Again  she  left  him  speechless;  and  straightway  pro- 
ceeded to  explain  in  detail  the  arrangements  and  work- 
ing of  her  house. 

When  she  paused,  rather  wistfully,  perhaps,  for 
praise,  he  confessed  that  it  was  admirable;  but  he  did 
not  tell  her  that  the  chief  of  his  admiration  was  for  her- 
self as  the  centre  of  its  life.  He  did  not  wonder  that 
the  crippled  or  starveling  babies  should  crawl  and 
hop  to  her,  or  stretch  out  their  arms  to  be  taken 
up.  He  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  her 
criticisms  and  suggestions  should  be  to  the  point, 
and  received  with  deference;  but  when  he  watched 
her  giving  a  new  nurse  a  practical  lesson  in  gruel- 

364 


Folly 

making,  he  judged  that  she  had  come  a  long  way  in 
her  progress. 

"I  am  afraid  the  gardens  are  very  wet,"  she  con- 
cluded, as  they  stood  in  the  hall  together.  "But  I 
have  forgotten  all  about  tea.  You'll  have  a  cup  ?  I'll 
ring  at  once." 

He  was  looking  at  his  watch.  "I  have  just  time  now 
if  I  make  haste." 

She  smiled  at  him,  with  some  constraint.  "Miss  it; 
there's  another."  And  she  led  the  way  into  her  sitting- 
room. 

There,  in  an  oppressive  silence,  he  presently  an- 
nounced: "I'm  going  down  to  Sunlands  in  a  day  or 
two." 

"Our  windows  look  that  way.  I  suppose  it's  not 
thirty  miles  across?"  she  answered  softly. 

"You  have  not  forgotten  the  place  then?"  he  began; 
and  silently  cursed  the  maid  with  the  tray. 

She  never  answered  that  question;  but  kept  the  ball 
of  their  talk  flying  as  lightly  as  possible  from  one  topic 
to  another,  until  the  form  of  tea  was  over  and  the  tray 
was  removed. 

His  despair  grew  with  the  twilight  that  was  setting 
in  with  heavier  rain.  He  left  the  window,  where  he  had 
been  standing,  and  came  over  to  her  side. 

"It's  getting  late,"  said  he,  gruffly.  "You  didn't 
shake  hands  when  I  came;  will  you  now  that  I  am 
going?" 

She  held  her  fingers  loosely  clasped  about  one 
365 


Folly 

knee,    and  smiled    up    at   him.       "Why     go?"    she 
asked. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets  and  studied 
her  face.  "Why  not?"  he  asked  in  turn. 

"Because  I  invite  you  to  stay." 

He  could  not  believe  that  he  had  understood.  "You 
want  me  to  stay?" 

She  nodded,  looking  away  from  him. 

And  still  he  could  not  accept  the  fact.  "Folly,  do 
you  know  what  you  are  saying?" 

He  fancied,  but  was  not  sure,  that  she  nodded  again. 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

"It  means — what  you  like  to  think,"  she  whispered. 

He  took  a  turn  across  the  room,  his  hands  still  in  his 
pockets. 

"You  do  not  realize  what  I  should  like  to  think." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  upon  him  suddenly.  "Can't  you 
make  me?" 

"Make  you?"  he  repeated,  coming  again  to  look 
down  upon  her.  "  Make  you  realize  it  ?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "I  ought  to  be  more 
humble.  I've  been  trying  to  get  to  it  all  the  time;  but 
I  thought — I  think  I  thought — you  would  help  me  out 
more.  Please,  Andrew,  take  me  back." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "You  want  to 
come?" 

She  nodded. 

His  next  words  surprised  her:  "You  seem  happy 
bere." 

36$ 


Folly 

"Yes,"  she  confessed. 

"Then  better  stay  where  you  are  happy,"  said  he 
harshly,  as  he  walked  away  to  the  window  again. 

She  too  rose,  with  a  sudden  little  laugh,  and  crossed 
over  to  him;  but  as  he  turned,  retreated  and  went  from 
picture  to  picture,  with  an  occasional  backward  smil- 
ing glance,  the  whole  round  of  the  room,  as  if  from 
station  to  station  in  a  spiritual  progress;  and  in  the 
end  came  back  to  him  from  the  other  side.  She  knew 
well  that  he  could  not  but  watch. 

"It  has  been  like  that  with  me;  I  went  away  and  I 
swing  back ;  but  if  you  will  not  have  me.  ..." 

She  paused  in  her  threat.     "What  then?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  swing  away  again;  but 
whether  I  shall  ever  come  back  to  you  after  that,  I  do 
not  know.  The  circles  get  larger  each  time,  and  take 
in  more  people.  .  .  .  Well?" 

Abruptly  he  seized  her,  and  drew  her  close  to  study 
her  face.  "But  you  have  been  happy  here  without  me  ?  " 

"Happy?"  she  repeated  softly.  "There  are  many 
widowed  and  orphan,  and  some  that  are  childless  in 
the  world;  and  they  have  to  learn  to  be  happy.  It  can 
be  done.  Yes,  I  have  been  happy  here;  but  it  does  not 
follow  that  I  shouldn't  be  a  little  happier — with  you." 

She  held  him  off  with  the  sudden  question:  "And 
you — how  do  you  get  on  without  me?" 

"I  can  manage,"  said  he,  with  a  new  light  coming 
into  his  eyes. 

"Decently?" 


Folly 

"I  hope  so." 

"Then  if  we  both  can,  why  need  we?"  she  cried, 
with  a  laugh  that  turned  to  tears.  And  then  he  believed. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  he  knew  that  this  was  no 
surrender  of  the  fruits  of  her  hard- won  victory;  but 
rather  a  sharing  of  the  treasure  that  she  had  garnered 
from  sorrow  and  the  love  of  little  children.  And  she 
was  content  to  believe  that  she  was  on  the  footpath  to 
the  citadel  of  peace. 

"Folly,"  said  he,  after  a  time,  "or  must  I  say  Wis- 
dom ?  .  .  .  Well,  Folly  then,  I  am  thinking  that  the 
mater  will  say, '  I  told  you  so  from  the  beginning.'  " 


368 


By   Mabel   Barnes-Grundy 


Truly  a  tale  of  most  exceptional  hu- 
mour and  charm  —  a  most  cap:ivating 
and  refreshing  story. 

HOW  ENGLAND    RECEIVED  HAZEL  : 

PUNCH.  —  «  '  The  Baron  has  great  pleasure  in 
recommending  Hazel  to  all  and  sundry.  There 
is  in  this  story  an  originality  of  idea  and  a  freshness 
of  treatment  that  will  rivet  the  attention  of  the  most 
jaded  novel-reader." 

PALL  MALL  GAZETTE.  —  "  In  Hazel  of  Heather- 
land,  Miss  Mabel  Barnes-Grundy  presents  the  story 
of  a  very  charming  country  girl.  In  the  quiet 
humours  of  home  life,  in  the  antithesis  of  severe 
and  buoyant  character  of  familiar  types,  and  in 
that  ingenuous  raillery  for  which  an  alert  and  good- 
tempered  disposition  can  find  so  much  opportunity, 
the  novel  is  entirely  agreeable.  A  very  pretty  love 
story,  tinctured  with  humour,  runs  through  the 
book,  and  any  reader  who  fails  to  enjoy  it  may  be 
dismissed  as  a  hopeless  frump." 

THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO.,  Publishers 

33-37  East  I7th  St.,  Union  Sq.  North,  New  York 


THE   POET 
MISS  KATE  AND  I 

BY 

MARGARET  P.  MONTAGUE 

Handsomely  Decorated  and  Illustrated.  Net,  $1.50 
Postage,  10  cents 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  the  charm  of 
this  mountain  tale  with  its  flashes  of 
humor,  its  intimate  touches  of  nature, 
and  its  delicate  love  story.  It  is  an 
idyl.  Not  only  is  the  story  an  ex- 
ceptionally charming  one  in  itself, 
but  the  book  is  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive of  the  season  in  point  of 
manufacture.  The  binding  and  fron- 
tispiece in  rich  color,  the  page  decora- 
rations  in  green,  and  the  numerous 
illustrations,  fit  the  book  admirably. 

THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 

33-37  East  lyth  Street,  New  York 


ROMANCES 
OF  OLD  FRANCE 


BY 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

Illustrated  and  Decorated.  Net,  $1.50 
Postage,  ice. 

This  is  in  a  sense  a  companion  to  Mr.  Le 
Gallienne's  "  Old  Love  Stories  Retold," 
which  was  so  popular  in  the  last  Christmas 
season.  It  retells  the  famous  Troubadour 
romances,  the  tales  of  tradition  and  chiv- 
alry, none  of  which  are  quite  historical 
but  all  of  which  have  unquestionable  basis 
in  fact.  The  tales  are  charmingly  done 
in  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  best  style. 

In  point  of  text  and  manufacture  the  book  is 
most  attractive,  with  its  decorations  in 
green,  its  numerous  illustrations  and  its 
binding  in  art  paper  and  leather. 

The  romances  retold  are  : 

King  Florus  and  the  Fair  Jehane. 

Amis  and  Amile. 

The  tale  of  King  Coustans  the  Emperor. 

Blonde  of  Oxford  and  Jehan  of  Damartin. 

Aucassin  and  Nicolete. 

The  History  of  Over  Sea. 


Co., 

::       New  York  City 


315afeer 

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A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

AND 

THE  CRICKET  ON  THE 
HEARTH 

BY 

CHARLES  DICKENS 

With  Introduction  and  Illustrations  in  Color  and 
Line,  by  George  Alfred  Williams.    4to,  $2.00 

Mr.  Williams  is  best  known  to  the  pub- 
lic as  the  artist  of  "Ten  Boys  from 
Dickens"  and  "  Ten  Girls  from  Dick- 
ens." His  interpretation  of  the  men 
and  women,  and  the  abandonment  of 
grotesque  caricatures  for  the  portrayal 
of  the  more  human  side  of  the  char- 
acters, marks  a  new  era  in  Dickens 
illustrations. 

The  book  is  printed  in  two  colors,  hand- 
somely bound,  and  is  the  most  attrac- 
tive edition  of  the  popular  Dickens 
Christmas  Books  which  has  yet  ap- 
peared. 

THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 

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MUt 


